


Mending Molly

by AdelaideE



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Awesome Molly, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Herbal Soothers, Hopefully realistic sex, Humor, Kidnapping, Molly Blogs, Molly gets a bit of her own back, Professor Moriarty - Freeform, Rescue, Romance, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlolly - Freeform, Temporary Amnesia, mollock, poor science jargon, poor spy technology jargon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaideE/pseuds/AdelaideE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly has a great life; she simply has to be reminded of the fact.  When Sherlock accidentally knocks the last few years out of her head, he's tasked with minding his injured friend as she regains her memories. Because past-Molly is a trusting stranger and present-Sherlock is of questionable character, complications tritely arise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another fic I've held onto for a while. Those familiar with my works will notice I enjoy writing amnesia stories. I dunno why. I also used to be fond of writing stories that dragged on and on without going any where, and am now trying for briefer styles.
> 
> Forgive for any factual errors: I'm a bit fuzzy as to what year this should be, Molly's exact age and life events, and the precise geography of London. 
> 
> My beta had questions about these, so just in case:
> 
> Spaghetti Trees: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaghetti-tree_hoax
> 
> Trimethyl Borate: http://imgur.com/gallery/MAEaSA2
> 
> I do not own Sherlock & company. They are the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, and have been temporarily borrowed here for purely entertainment, nonprofit reasons.

“Given the advancement in mind-to-mind communication, I think it would be possible one day to learn what Toby was up to in the month he was gone.  I know it’s been a while and he’s mostly recovered, but I swear he gets this look like he has flashbacks to war. ” Molly laughed as she shifted the large box in her arms, and picked up the pace to stay alongside Sherlock.  They were walking back to his flat in the chilly night air with carefully contained and labelled leaves from the park, and were ready to experiment on them at Baker Street.  Hours earlier, Molly had been prepared to spend the night watching a few romantic DVDs she hadn’t seen in a while, when a succinct text message from Sherlock summoned her from her warm bed. 

“I believe I previously told you that your habit of anthropomorphising your animal was off-putting and tedious.”

His comment, hurriedly delivered as their feet ate up the pavement, smarted a little, but Molly at least knew that he was listening.  She wasn’t sure before, since he seemed very taken up with a fortuitously found squirrel carcass (thankfully also in plastic) in his possession.  To a passerby, it might have appeared unchivalrous that he left her encumbered with an unwieldy box whilst he only busied himself with a small dead rodent, but Molly understood the amount of obsessive control Sherlock needed for his experiments.  She didn’t mind, really!

“Well, I think I’m a little justified considering he ran away from home when I wouldn’t let him date the neighbor’s feline tart!”  She heard him sarcastically echo her amusement under his breath, but excused it as compulsion; Sherlock couldn’t keep things in, not like other people, so she did him the favour of ignoring his rudeness.  “I think he’s sown enough wild oats, bless.  I mean, he’s not going to win any beauty contests any time soon, with all his scars, but he’s still got his spirit!”

“Molly, you needn’t tell me.  Haven’t you sent us all email updates complete with photographs?”

“Yeah, but you’re the only one who hasn’t responded—oof!”  She, or rather, the box in her arms collided with his back, but Molly refused to blame herself.  Sherlock was the one who paused suddenly in the middle of the crosswalk.  Molly opened her mouth to remonstrate when she caught whiff of what had arrested her colleague so abruptly.

“Is that smoke?” she asked as he broke into a run.

The night was foggy, and at first it was hard for Molly to discern the dark grey clouds billowing from the direction toward which they had been headed.  Hefting an even tighter grip on the box, Molly chased him down the dark lane.  Again, she excused Sherlock’s rudeness, for it could have been an emergency.

In a few short minutes, Molly discovered it _was_ an emergency.  Mrs. Hudson stood with their neighbors, most of them in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, across the way as they heard the fire services coming closer.

“Oh hello love,” the landlady said as Molly arrived.  “Terrible, isn’t it?”

“You mean the fire?” Molly asked, wondering at her lax attitude.  She looked as inconvenienced as one might be by the traffic or bad weather.  “Yes, it is.”

Mrs. Hudson’s red shot eyes—she must have been caught in the smoke—stared up before they turned to Molly.  “He’s not taking it well,” she noticed with a little laugh.  She gestured to 221, and at first the pathologist did not know what she meant until they heard a familiar, scolding shout from the upper storey window.  “I told him we’re insured,” she added mildly.

“Molly!  Get over here!” Yup.  He sounded furious. 

“Mrs. Hudson!  Did you let Sherlock run into the fire?”

“Well I couldn’t stop him, could I?” Mrs. Hudson said reasonably, still oddly mellow about the entire disaster, as Molly crossed the street to stand just below the open window.

The fire servicemen were soon arriving, and she’d be forced to back away.  “Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?  Get out—“  She was hit in the face with a Union Jack cushion, and yelped. 

“You were supposed to catch it in the box.”

“I’ll buy you new cushions.  Please get down now!”

“But I don’t want a new one.  I like that one. “ 

She sighed.  He _would_ risk death by fire because he couldn’t deal with change.  Granted, the fire seemed to be in the lower level and in the back, but there was a chance that there’d be water damage. 

“Sherl—“  This time, a dressing gown half fell on her, and half into her container.  It smelled like him, and she hated herself for even giving that a moment’s thought before she angrily shook it off her face and into the box. 

“Better!” he said approvingly, and ducked back inside for more.  “Okay, brace yourself for the next one.  It’s important,” he called out when he returned.

“If you would just be reasonab—“ Molly tried to say before Sherlock Holmes’ bloody microscope hit her square on the head. 

It was curious.  She had never been hit so hard she lost consciousness before.  Molly tried to stay upright, stay aware, but her mind and then her body all at once relinquished control.  At least the emergency services are already come, she thought before she faded off.

 

* * *

 

 

Unlike the clichés she’d read, the young woman did not slowly regain consciousness whilst overhearing a flatteringly concerned conversation about her well-being.

Instead, as soon as somebody had closed her door rather loudly, her eyes snapped open and she looked up at the newcomer, who had an odd, angular face, luscious dark curls (oh, she’d kill to have her hair curl like that!), and a somewhat foreboding pale gaze.  Something about him made her heart leap into her throat, and Molly felt herself smiling for no reason.  She nearly greeted him until the door opened again, and somebody else appeared, grousing “Sherlock, don’t be such a prat.  You knew I was right behind you.”

“Greg, you interrupted her sleep.” 

The tan gentleman with salt and pepper hair nearly contradicted him when he paused and did a double take.  “You just called me Greg.”

Molly looked about her and noticed she was in a private room of a bland beige and generic furnishings:  a chair, a small table, and a few bouquets on the counter.  Strange, she did not feel injured enough to warrant a private room.  A slight headache maybe, but it was fading fast.  In fact, she did not know what caused her to land in a hospital at all.  Perhaps she could ask…

“I did,” Sherlock said after a thoughtful pause.  “Matter of probability, Lestrade, I’d eventually happen upon the right one in all the modern ‘G’ names I knew.  I wouldn’t read into it, if I were you.”

“Oh bollocks.  You’ve always known—“

“Excuse me?” she interrupted gently with a raised hand.  The pair turned to her and stepped closer to the bed.  “But if you two just popped by just to have a private conversation, you’re more than welcome to step outside for it.  I _was_ sleeping, if you’ll remember.”

“Sorry, Molly,” the second one said, mildly chastised.  He looked like a hardworking man, she noticed, taking in his modest but wrinkled suit, and the smart trench coat.  “How are you feeling?”

“All right, I suppose…Greg, was it?”  He blinked his brown eyes and the other one smirked with delighted surprise.

“Oh, very funny,” he sighed.  “Did he put you up to it?”

“Unlikely.  This is the first time I’ve seen Molly since the incident.”

“Is that what you’re calling it, then?”

Sherlock—she could not forget that name, even if she had only heard it this once—cleared his throat and looked down at her.  “Seeing as you’re showing glimmers of that sparkling sense of humour, I assume you’re feeling well?”

She narrowed her eyes.  “Are you being sarcastic?”

Greg and Sherlock glanced at one another.  At this non-answer, she continued in a matter of fact tone, “Because I know I’m hilarious.  If you’re implying that I’m not, we must not know each other very well.”

There was an awkward moment during which both men simply stared.  She was about to surreptitiously check her nose for bogeys when the door opened again, and an exasperated man in a white coat and stethoscope arrived, followed by a familiar (at last!) face.

“Meena!” she cried with relief and her friend brushed past the doctor to hug her.  Then she pulled back abruptly.  “Lord, when did you change your hair?”  Molly exclaimed, touching her friends microbraids with wonder.

“How do you mean?” her best mate asked, checking her own head in alarm.

“I mean, you said you’d never grow out the mohawk,” Molly said uncertainly. 

“What is she—“

The doctor, an older man with greying ginger hair and a ruddy complexion, opened his mouth to explain but was interrupted by the Sherlock fellow.

“Molly?  What is your full name?”

“Margaret Emmaline Hooper.  What’s yours?” 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, that can’t be your _full_ name, there has to be a first or middle—“

“Birthday?”

Molly pouted at being interrupted, but answered any way.  “Tenth of January.”

“What year?”

“Every year!”  She saw that said in a film once—at least, she thought she did—and had always wanted a chance to try it.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and Greg’s mouth twitched.  The taller bloke disliked her cheek, apparently.

“And what year is _this_ year?”

Molly frowned, and looked at the other occupants uncertainly.  The doctor looked patient, Meena seemed anxious, and Greg was fascinated.  “Well…it’s nineteen ninety-nine.  Of course?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re joking,” John said on the phone.  Sherlock was in the canteen, fetching some tea for his “victim,” as Lestrade dramatically labelled her, and observed the note of excitement in his friend’s voice.  He had been sent away when she learned of her condition and became tritely emotional; the last thing they needed was his cold assessment of the situation, and preemptively asked him to find her a comforting cuppa before he could open his mouth.

(It was very rude.  Of course he’d expect her to be saddened by the loss of her memories.  He hadn’t been about to add to her teary horror by embarrassing her for a natural reaction.  Really.)

“No, I’m entirely serious. Retrograde amnesia reset her mind to when she last lived with her family.”

“Why?”

“Comfort, safety, something silly or other.  Also, she appears to be having issues with her short term memory formation.  The doctor had already informed her and Meena—“

“Who’s Meena, again?”

“Meena Kiawu, Molly’s oldest friend.  Meena repeated what the doctor had told them earlier, after she awoke during the CAT scan, but Molly seemed to have forgotten that altogether.”

“I’ve treated thousands of people with head trauma and I never got to observe retrograde amnesia.”  If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, he might’ve thought his blogger sounded envious.  “Do you think she’ll still have amnesia by the time we come back from Harry’s?” he asked hopefully.

“Difficult to say, but Dr. Horowitz expects her to regain her memories before the week is out.  The trouble with short term memory formation, he says, will end sooner.”

It wasn’t that the memories were “lost” per se, but rather like a puzzle that had been dropped unceremoniously.  The pieces were there, and simply needed to be clicked back into place. 

“Yeah, well, what would he know, eh?  How often has he had a case like this?  I should maybe—ow!”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked as he strode down the hall back to Molly’s room.  There was a long pause and then a sigh.

“Mary says you’re a bad influence considering I’m not showing enough concern for Molly’s condition.”

“Hmm, I was ready to approve of your professional enthusiasm.”

“Oh dear,” he heard John mutter ashamedly, and Sherlock guessed his approval meant Mrs. Watson was right.  “And she wants me to say that you had better not dare do any experiments on her.”

“Don’t be daft,” Sherlock scoffed, just outside the door.  “To do a proper experiment, I’d need another retrograde amnesiac as the control.”

John laughed, made a noise of pain, and quickly ended the call to stave off any further blows from his former assassin wife.  Sherlock smiled. 

He swung open the door with what he hoped to be his most innocent expression when all eyes turned accusingly to him.  Well, all eyes save one pair, but they hardly ever accused him, even when the owner of said eyes knew better.  Sherlock handed her the tepid tea and tried not to roll his eyes when she smiled gratefully at him. 

“All right,” Meena said briskly as she packed up Molly’s things, “rules.  No experimenting on our dear Molls.”

Sherlock feigned offense.  “I would never—“

“No planting false memories for a laugh, no digging for private memories, no testing of any sort,” Lestrade warned, just as stern, as Molly bit her lip.

“Goodness!  It sounds as if you’re leaving me in villainous hands,” she giggled.

“What?  Why do I have to care for her if I can’t even experi— _help_ her?” Sherlock asked, extremely put out.

“Second rule: Don’t be mean.  Pretend you’re somebody else, if you have to, but don’t be mean to her,” Meena added.

“You’ve nothing on,” Lestrade answered his question with a shrug.  “Those of us with bosses can’t take the whole day off.  And her mother and sister live in Canada—they’ve been notified, of course, but they won’t come back when she’s set to recover fairly quickly.  Besides, you ought to, considering it’s your fault she’s even in here.”

“One takes necessary risks in the spirit of scientific exploration,” Sherlock told the patient, who looked startled by that last piece of information, and he then reluctantly accepted the bag of pain medicine, instructions, and small toiletries.  He noticed Molly looking at the bouquets on the counter and quickly surmised her wishes.  “I’m afraid we can’t bring the flowers back, Molly.”

“Oh?  But they’re lovely.”

“Yes, but you’re allergic, so it wouldn’t be prudent.”  Also, he’d be the one who would have to carry them, and the pollen would end up dusting his suit. 

“I am?  But I wasn’t before…” she trailed off when Meena and Greg made frustrated noises, and glowered at Sherlock pointedly. 

“Oh, well that was a fib,” Sherlock grumbled.  “You’re not allergic.  But they’re a nuisance and a bother to carry.  Plus!” His eyes, a very fine aquamarine colour she noticed, lit up with an idea.  “Toby will likely eat them, as he’s not very bright and eats anything.”

“Oh god,” Molly uttered, with one hand flying up to cover her mouth in horror.  “I have a son!  Who’s fat!  And _stupid_?”

“No, sweetheart,” Meena laughed as she checked her phone.  “Toby’s a cat.”

“Oh well, that’s a relief,” Molly laughed as well as she sipped her tea, “I’m not the sort who can take care of anything more complex.”

“Er…we didn’t tell you…” Greg was fidgeting, and looked to Meena for help.

Her best mate grimaced.  “The thing is, love, it sort of works out that—“

“Workers are repairing my flat—smoke and water damage due to a fire accidentally caused by my landlady, who’d been high as a kite—and it should be done within two weeks,” Sherlock said as he ushered his pathologist out of the room.  “John’s gone while his house is painted.  So, for now, we’re flat mates.  I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you, as we’ve lived together before, and it went swimmingly.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Meena’s stopping by after work—can you believe she’s a banker?  She was so anti-corporate when we were teenagers…any way, she’ll fill me in on my past.  But I was wondering if you could fill me in on the present?”

Sherlock sighed as they climbed the steps of her building.  It was easy enough keeping her occupied in the taxi.  Molly was constantly amazed by everything:  the changes in the London streets since 1999, the width of her hips, the advancement of mobiles.  During the ride, Molly only spoke when she needed help unlocking her phone.  He had taken it, quickly unlocked it judging by the pattern of the swipes on the screen, and then proceeded to snoop through her SMS history.  There were concerned messages from her family, who most likely texted to avoid long distance call rates. 

Then, irked with his presumption, she had tugged it out of his hand.

“My messages only go back a month?”

“Your previous mobile had undergone water damage and this is the recent replacement,” he told her, neglecting to mention it had occurred because it fell out of her pocket and into the Thames as she acquired water samples for him.  Molly accepted this without question and spent the next half hour marveling at the device. 

She hadn’t asked any other questions until now and Sherlock didn’t know how to answer her as he unlocked the door.  Upon strolling in, Molly forgot her question and abandoned her smart phone on the lamp table as she looked about the two bedroom, one bath.

“I live here?” she asked in wonder, taking in the cosy, if not somewhat cluttered home.  “Without any flatmates?”

“Well, yes, usually,” Sherlock responded, and watched in confusion as she flitted from the sitting room, to the kitchen, and then down the short hallway. 

“This is…whew!  I go from living with my mum and sis to my own flat in the space of a day!”  Before Sherlock could correct her erroneous measure of time, she had gone into the toilet.  “Oh my god!  One tap for hot and cold!” she squealed with delight, and reappeared with a little skip in her step.  “Jesus, this is bigger than the house I grew up in!”

Sherlock paused as he set out her things on the kitchen counter.  “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

“Well, yes, but only a little,” she sighed as she strode up to him with a beaming smile.  “And don’t call me Shirley.”

She snickered when he wouldn’t, and licked her lips excitedly.  “So?  Meena says I’ll regret doing this, but Greg said you tell people about themselves for a living, and you’re usually pretty accurate.”

“Usually?” he repeated, slightly offended. 

“I’ve already gathered that I’m pretty well off,” she said, laughably proud of herself.  Under normal circumstances, he might have found such financial bragging vulgar, but seeing Molly behave in such a way was oddly endearing.  He had rarely seen her so jubilant.  She continued, “I mean, I live in London—“

“Molly, you were raised in London,” he reminded her, and was surprised when she shook her head.

“Yes, but when dad fell ill, which happened a lot, off and on, my sister and I were sent to live with my grandparents in Chulmleigh, so mum could care for him without worrying about us.  I thought I’d spend the rest of my life there, some days.”  Her smile waned briefly at the memories, until she cleared her throat and cheerily continued.  “I live in London, in a two bedroom flat of my own, with one tap for hot and cold, and—“

A furry, hateful beast wound its way between her feet, and she stumbled slightly before looking down.  “And a cat!” she all but shrieked, making Sherlock wince and back away from the pair.  “Oh my god, he’s gorgeous,” Molly wailed as if in pain, picking the mongrel up to smother it with kisses.  “You didn’t mention how precious he is!”

Sherlock looked at her incredulously.  Toby had been an average looking cat before he ran away a few months prior.  Now, he gave the impression he had been hit by a car and then thrown into a volcano before being chucked back out to rot in the sun.  His various medical procedures had left odd parts of his white, grey-brown coat growing at different rates, resulting in an uneven, feral look.  One eye had fallen half shut due to some condition Sherlock never cared to ask about, and something about the hinging in his jaw made him drool at odd times.  The ears, or what was left of them after a month of alley way scrapping, looked just dirty.  Despite Molly’s attentive care and a clean bill of health, the animal now appeared crusty and on the cusp of death. 

“It’s perfectly ugly and you know it,” he said now, hoping that the head injury would get her to admit the truth.  “John’s always startled whenever he sees it.  Says it reminds him of a ‘Stephen King story’.”

“Uncle Sherlock doesn’t mean it, baby,” Molly cooed affectionately and kissed his furry cheek.  “We both know you’re adorable.”

“He’s less adorable when he tries to hide in your socks and gets one stuck on his face,” Sherlock informed her coolly as she made Toby wave at him by shaking one paw.  “Then the idiot walks into walls because he can’t see.”

Molly shrugged.  “All right, so my home life is pretty fantastic, aside from mum and Julie living in Ontario—which wasn’t a total surprise, since the bloke Julie was seeing in 1999 was Canadian, and mum always said she’d move to help us if we reproduced.  Oh, I’m an aunt!”  She jumped joyfully at that, and Toby scrambled out of her arms to escape the elation.  “I suppose this is the part where you tell me my job is crap, right?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Actually, you seem quite pleased with your career.”

“Am I the best?” she asked eagerly.

“No, not really.”  In the Venn diagram of who was a skilled pathologist and who would cooperate with his professional demands, Molly Hooper was the only one who fell into both circles; such classification made him slightly biased, he supposed.  “But you’re very capable…er—“  Sherlock was surprised to see her wilt; the Molly he knew wasn’t that ambitious.  “And you’re somewhat on your way up.”  She brightened at that.  “Your position is impressive considering your age—“

“Which is so.  Old.” she chimed in mournfully.  Sherlock frowned at that, for he was a few years older than Molly, but did not consider himself ancient by any means.

“Yes, and you’re published in various journals when you have time, and have built a strong reputation as a helpful resource for the Met.  Also, you’re the only tolerable pathologist for miles.”

“I think that was meant to be a compliment, but Meena, Greg, and the doctor warned me you’re difficult,” she laughed.  Toby leapt up on the counter, knocking a few of Molly’s things onto the lino.  Sherlock bent to retrieve her medication while she scooped to get her icepack, and she couldn’t help but notice how well fitted his trousers were, and what lovely things they did for his bum. 

She tilted her head to better appreciate the view when she met his eyes in the reflection of her oven door.  Smiling slightly, she met his gaze when they both stood up, blushing only a little.

She was suddenly struck by how familiar this felt—her, openly admiring him, and him, clearly used to it.  Why?  Did they have a history?

Sherlock turned and opened her cupboards to make some tea, drawing out her electric kettle, her tin tea box, and a cup, without any hesitation to anything’s location. 

“So, ah, we’ve lived together before?” she hedged, and he turned to look at her.

For a few seconds, while his eyes ran over her, Molly felt as if she was being weighed, measured, and been found wanting.  But he didn’t say so.  Instead, he replied, “Yes.  There was a time during which I faked my death and needed a place to hide.  You, as one of my few accomplices, falsified my papers and gave me sanctuary.”

Molly paused at that, but he did not offer more details.  Perhaps it was painful for him to discuss.  “Oh, so we’re friends?”

“We are now, yes.”

Molly narrowed her eyes, flicking them once to his bare ring finger before looking back up at his inscrutable face.  “I suppose your girlfriend minds you flitting about from bolt hole to bolt hole?”

“It’s not an issue.”

She had a feeling he was enjoying being enigmatic, given the way his shrewd eyes crinkled with amusement.  Then he dropped the friendly expression so suddenly that she wondered if he meant it at all.

“I’m very busy,” he told her abruptly.  “I’ve started your tea, and that’s all I am qualified to do as your de facto nurse.  I recommend searching the internet for anything you’re wondering about; it’s mostly helpful.  I don’t know the password to your laptop, at least not now since you’ve probably changed it after I found your favourite erotic literature sites.  I can deduce it but I haven’t the time.  Use your phone.”  He picked it up and showed her the basic functions she had not figured out on her own in the cab.  “You can ask questions in the same way you’d ask a person.  Got it?  Good.  I’ll return tonight, but very late, as is my habit…oh, that reminds me.  You prefer the bed in the guest room, and let me sleep in your bed.  I’m taller, it only makes sense.  Laters.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock finished his day around midnight, and was happily munching on some chips on his way to Molly’s flat when he received a text from Mary Watson. 

It wasn’t an actual text, but a screen shot of Molly’s Facebook.  Neither he nor John had accounts, as it was a stupid site and a massive waste of time, but Mary used it to keep tabs on several people, as well as news that concerned their work.

Molly had been updating her status; whether it was intentional or not was yet to be determined. 

“Internet, what’s happened since 1999?”

“What is Y2K?”

“Why are Freddos so bloody expensive?”

“We haven’t won Eurovision since 97?!”

“Oh my god B*Witched broke up?  AND GOT BACK TOGETHER?”

It was only when she actually received a few responses to these queries did Molly apparently realise the point of the status box, and began to make use of it. 

“Hello the Facebook.  Can everybody I’ve met since 1999 please comment on how we met?  Thank you.  (This is Molly Hooper).”  Luckily for her, many of her friends assumed this was one of those asinine memes, and she accumulated many answers in just a few hours.  Even Tom filled her in on their history, but he took the time to sugarcoat it, fortunately.

Then Mary sent another text message as he was ready to unlock Molly’s door. 

I trust you haven’t left literally Molly to her own devices because you can’t be bothered.  Do pretend to have a heart, at least until we get back.  Or I will hurt you.-MW

 He immediately sent an untruthful text which denied all accusations. 

That last bit wasn’t an empty threat, which confused Sherlock.  Molly apparently had friends, some of them close, but Mary Watson was just an acquaintance.  Ah, the assassin had probably gone soft with motherhood.  Besides, Molly was fine.  Molly was resourceful.  Molly was…

…sitting in front of her television, crying next to a small mountain of used tissues. 

She jumped slightly to see him, but then resumed her heavy bawling.  God, she looked terrible like this.  Like a weepy gargoyle. 

“How could Savile do that?” she demanded.  Sherlock set his food on the coffee table and saw that she was watching a special exposé about one of England’s most atrocious citizens.  “I trusted him!  We all trusted him!”

“And that,” he declared, “is enough of that.” He turned off the television and nudged the chips at her.  “Have something to eat.”  Sherlock’s eyes landed on the empty bottle of red wine and the nearly empty glass beside it, but neither saw nor smelled any evidence of dinner.  “I trust you didn’t take your medicine and drink?”  In a warbled voice, she denied it, claiming she had not felt any pain and decided against the painkillers.  Relieved, he then asked, “Have you been drinking on an empty stomach?” 

“No,” she assured him, enunciating very clearly as she calmed down.  That meant nothing to Sherlock, who long ago had learned one of the first things a drunk Molly Hooper did was focus on her pronunciation, for she thought slurring to be very sloppy indeed.  “I had ice cream.”

He laughed, surprising himself, but it was hopelessly childish and such a bad idea and so…not Molly that he couldn’t help the chuckle.  Molly cheered considerably when he laughed.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Oooh, yes please,” she said suggestively, and giggled as she stretched languidly on the rug.  Molly chortled even more when Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Sherlock?  Are you my true love or something?”

He sat on the floor and leaned back on her sofa while he regarded her, his expression unreadable.  “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, which he hated, but thankfully she continued before he could berate her for it.  “I don’t remember anything concrete about our history, but I get a funny feeling when it comes to you.  All excited and giddy, in my stomach and my heart.  And I blush all over; it’s really almost uncomfortable if I wasn’t so happy.  Maybe you remind me of someone.  No, you definitely do.  But I don’t think that’s it.”

Muscle-memory affection?  Did her mind carry a memory of him lurking just under the surface, and he was inadvertently reminding her of himself?  That was interesting…but no, they said he wasn’t to experiment on or investigate her.  He sighed and finished his chips by himself, hoping that she’d fall asleep by the time he was done.  But when he found her brown eyes watching him expectantly, Sherlock shook his head.  “No, Molly.  I’m not your true love.”

It was curious, how she seemed to shrink into herself, when she had already been curled up.  Despite his uncharacteristic effort to soften the hurt his truth might cause, Molly was wounded.  But while he couldn’t lie to her, not even when she was in such a vulnerable position, he could offer her some truth. 

“I don’t think I’d be a good true love, so it’s best that I don’t try to be.  My offering some chips just now is the fullest extent of my thoughtfulness.”  Molly laughed softly at that and tried to pat his knee, but missed entirely and ended up patting his shoe. 

“Besides, true love isn’t real, as you should know by now.  It’s all chemicals, tricking our brains into believing enduring faith and ‘death do us part’ and rubbish like that.  True love is as real as spaghetti trees.”

Sherlock didn’t know why he was even broaching the subject, for it only opened the gates for the flood of protestations she was sure to release.  Perhaps because he really didn’t have much on, and the fact that this Molly was a bit more interesting than the one he was used to.  Also, he liked debunking the myth of love as much as Ebenezer Scrooge enjoyed humbugging Christmas, before he had been browbeaten into holiday cheer.

“Well, yeah,” Molly agreed sleepily, “that’s true.  There’s no denying the neurochemistry of romance.”  Sherlock frowned down at her and bade her to continue.  The amnesiac felt it necessary to sit up for her next words, and made Sherlock drag her up with one hand before she pushed her hair out of her face.

“True love doesn’t happen in the first meeting, or the first month, or even the first year.  It’s what happens after the initial lust and the urge to reproduce abates.  When there’s nothing in your brain juices to tell you to keep going with the person, but you do any way, even though you know the flaws, and even actively hate them sometimes.  That’s true love—the choice.”

Sherlock contemplated her words, wishing he could offer an argument, but found himself in the odd position of not knowing.  He didn’t have any experience with what she meant, but then again, neither did she.  What gave her the right to be so confident?

“Oh, good night,” she sang happily, ready to slide back down to the floor, had not he reached for her arm and hauled her to her feet.  “Can I ask you another question?”

“I think we’ve chatted enough, Molly,” he said, pushing her to the bathroom so that she could brush her teeth.  He had to squeeze the toothpaste onto the brush and she just barely managed to stick it in her mouth, but they succeeded finishing the ablutions so that he could propel her to bed.

She hadn’t forgotten when he tucked her into the guest bed.  “When you mentioned all that fake death and stuff?  That was real, right? And Greg meant it when he said you’ve too much brain and too much time on your hands, and it’s a good thing you’re a detective?”

“Consulting detective,” he corrected automatically.  “Don’t ask me questions if you already know the answers,” he told her blandly, and was ready to switch off the light when she asked one more.

“But if you weren’t a detective?  What would you be?  What would you do?”

He sighed impatiently.  What was with this girl and her incessant need to fill every waking moment with pestering dialogue? 

“I would most likely be one of the world’s most successful criminals and I would shoot things when I’m bored, which actually happens often.  Good night, Molly.”

When he settled into her bed that night, he noticed immediately how lovely the pillow smelled.  It was a subtle, clean, and feminine scent he wouldn’t have been quick to associate with Molly.  Staring at the dim ceiling, he tried to remember if he had been distracted by the smell before, the last time he stayed here, and could only conclude that she changed the sheets for him then.

She needn’t have bothered, he thought to himself as he fell asleep.  It was surprisingly pleasant, falling asleep to her fragrance. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock Holmes awoke to a horrible sound.  It was rather like those hunted wildebeests one saw in nature documentaries.  He half expected David Attenborough to describe the morning rituals of the rare creature of Molly Hooper Hungover.  He checked his watch and was glad to see that it was not too early for him to be up, and that he had received two threatening messages from John and Mary, and then one helpful one from Mike Stamford. 

“What is going on?” she moaned when he found her kneeling before the toilet.  “What _is_ this?”

“Come now, Molly,” he cajoled, finding some paracetamol on a shelf and handing it to her with a glass of water from the sink.  “Even in 1999 I’m sure you understood the consequence of too much alcohol and the morning after.”

“Yes but that doesn’t happen to me,” Molly griped, popping two pills with a forceful swig.  “I’ve definitely been drunker before without any problems.  Dad used to say I was one of the blessed ones.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  Molly’s father died when she was eighteen.  How often did she have occasion to drink, and apparently drink hard, before then?  Meena had said that he ought not to dig through memories Molly meant to keep private, but he found himself growing curious about her past.  It was bizarre, as he had no interest prior to the incident. 

“Yes, but Albert hadn’t seen you turn thirty,” Sherlock explained as he helped her up.  As an afterthought, he realised that the comment could have hurt her feelings given that, in her mind, her father had just died a few years prior.  But she seemed to have dealt with it rather healthily, and did not wince when he mentioned the decedent.  “Recovery from such nights is infamously more difficult after that age.”

“Ugh, clearly.  And my metabolism’s turned to shite.  Look at these hips!” Quite without warning, she began to strip herself of her pyjamas, and the consulting detective barely had time to turn around before he heard her start the shower.

Then he was embarrassed that he had cared when she clearly didn’t; they were both adults, after all, who had comfortable and mature knowledge of human anatomy.  He spoke just to move past his unease.   

“You’re definitely swearing a bit more than is usual,” he told her, facing her once more after she drew the curtain. 

“Oh?  Bet medical school and work curbed that.  I picked it up after Dad passed away.  The house felt too prim and proper without somebody swearing once in a while.”

“Speaking of work, Mike wants you to come in.”

“Mike?”

“Stamford.  Colleague.  He can show you around the morgue, and perhaps jog some of your memory.”

“Oh, good.  I think some of it’s coming back already!  Some of the things my friends told me on the Facebook made me remember meeting them.  Meena was very informative yesterday, and little flashbacks have been flooding me in between her stories.  I even knew where Toby’s cat food was, so that’s a good sign.”

Sherlock made a congratulatory noise and left her to start breakfast.  He initially grimaced, as he had been hoping Molly would be the one cooking for him during his stay.  Toast and coffee was all that he managed competently, but the trouble he went through felt inexplicably worth it when she appeared and gushed over his small effort. 

“My stomach feels loads better—Oh, thank you Sherlock!  I ought to be ashamed, letting a house guest cook for me.  But look, you know how I like my toast.”

He did, because he mocked her enough for it in the past.  “Yes, just the idea of warmth against the bread before popping out of the toaster,” he observed teasingly, and Molly laughed as she buttered a piece. 

“Yeah, only half of the time on the lowest possible setting,” she said what he already knew, but they both looked up with interest at her memory, for she hadn’t had this toaster and known its settings in’99.  “Do you know, Amnesia Molly can remember that, but Tom never could,” Molly giggled.  Then she winced, tenderly touching her head, and reached for her coffee eagerly.  “Black?”

“Yes, it’s how you take it now.  You have toffee-flavoured cream in the fridge, but only use it for a treat.  I suspect it’s something to do with watching your figure.”

“Sod that,” she snorted, and stood to retrieve it.  “What are you up to today?” Molly asked hopefully as she mixed in cream and sugar. 

“I’ll escort you to St. Bart’s, check on the progress of the repairs at my home, and then do some work.”

“Oh.  Could I come?”

“Yes, I told you Mike said—“

“No, I meant with you.”  Sherlock stared blankly at her, and she was quick to add, “Obviously, you’re of some importance to me, but not a single memory has come back for you—us, I mean, that is…I just thought, if I spent more time with you, we could talk…”

She trailed off when he remained impassive, and for a split second, he could see himself from her eyes—incomprehensively unsympathetic and downright foreboding.  Granted, Molly had always seen him for what he was, but, the way she looked at him now, as if it were a new thing to find out he was a beast, well…he didn’t like it. 

“Never mind,” she murmured, notably downcast, at the same time he said, “Perhaps another day, Molly, but you really ought to regain your professional footing first.”

She only nodded and continued to eat her breakfast, careful to school her features into aloofness.  While nothing of her features changed from the Molly he knew, the way she carried herself definitely made her appear younger.  She sat with one leg bent on the chair beneath her.  She tried and failed to hide the hurt he caused.  She fidgeted and even hummed an unknown tune before she remembered she meant to stay quiet.  Sherlock half expected her to pop some bubble gum and braid some friendship bracelets in the next minute.

“I’ve got to get dressed, I guess,” Molly sighed eventually.  “Do you know what the weather’s supposed to be like today?”

“Usual spring—sunny, cloudy, rainy, dry, cold, and warm, all in various order.”  The girl giggled and nodded.  He was happy that she did not spend too long dressing, emerging from her room just a few minutes later in dark olive jeans, brown flats, and a cream button down shirt that tapered in small pleats at her sides. 

He smiled briefly as they made their way down the steps and into the city air.  “I think this head trauma’s had a positive effect on your fashion choices,” he commented idly, hailing a cab.

“What do you mean?  I saw loads of cardigans and jumpers in my closet.”

“Yes, and this morning you made the good decision to avoid all of them,” he pointed out before gallantly opening the door of the car that just stopped.

Molly paused just before she climbed in.  Her face was set in a scowl.  “I think they’re all lovely,” she informed him haughtily.  Then she settled herself in the back seat, and refused to speak to him when he joined her.  Sherlock, who thought he was doing something nice, gave the driver the address and said nothing more, as conversation with young Molly was a kind of minefield.  Moody little creature.

Silence was good.  Silence was golden.  Their friendship meant that he couldn’t tell her to shut up as often as he wished, so Molly voluntarily keeping her gob shut should have been a boon—was a boon, and he wasn’t sorry for it.  Not even a little.

Sherlock stared out the window and literally counted down the blocks until they arrived at the familiar hospital.  He did not bother to check to see if she followed, and swiftly took the necessary doors, lifts, and turns until, with merely pointing a finger, he indicated whose door she was supposed to find. 

She said nothing.  No thank you, no good bye.  She simply turned and walked off; not to be rude to him, but because she didn’t spare him any more thought than necessary.  Which didn’t bother Sherlock a bit.  Not at all.  He was fine. 

His mind continued to protest too much as he began his ascension to another area of the hospital.  He rounded a corner to the exit the lower levels when he collided with a familiar banker.

“Oh, hallo,” Meena said, with none of her usual animosity.  During the times they met in the past, the woman disliked him, and made no bones about it.  “Thank you,” she added, sounding surprised, as he bent down to gather the box of photographs and mementos that had fallen from her arms. 

“For Molly?” he assumed, eyeing two B*Witched CDs, trinkets, and pictures, all of which related to their mutual friend.

“Yeah, I agreed to keep her memories box hidden away at mine during her last break up.  It was a bit too tempting for her self-pity, at the time.”

“I was under the impression that you had done an adequate job of refreshing her memories yesterday.”

“Well, yeah, we made loads of progress, but I want to make sure she really does remember and wasn’t just saying she did to please me.  You know Little Miss Perfect, not wanting to admit it,” Meena laughed.  “Besides, it was fun, walking down Memory Lane with her.”

The last of the mess cleaned up, Sherlock spied a single photograph that managed to slide under a bench.  When he reclaimed it, he held it further away from Meena’s grasp without noticing he had done so.

“Who’s this?”

“Hmm?  Oh.  Damning Dave.”

A very young Molly smiled bashfully as a boy, no older than eighteen, wrapped his lanky arms around her from behind at some public place outdoors, perhaps a football pitch.  They both squinted against the sun, but it was clear that the lad was handsome, with a mischievous boyish smile, a pointed jaw, high cheekbones—though not as sharp as his, thank you—straight black brows, and large, friendly brown eyes.  His hair was a mop of dark curls that was almost too long at the back to be fashionable, but then again, it had been the ‘90s.  It had been cold; hence, Molly’s thick jumper and rosy cheeks, still a bit round from baby fat, and the bloke’s long dark coat, the collar of which was popped up.  This Dave was tall, dark, and handsome, and apparently infatuated with Molly. 

Sherlock’s mind rapidly summoned her drunken words the other night.  _Maybe you remind me of someone.  No, you definitely do._

“First love and all that,” Meena sighed in amusement, plucking the photograph from his fingers.

“It was a bad break up?” he guessed.

“Oh no, very amicable,” she assured him as she tucked it back into the shoebox.  “She wanted to be a doctor in London, though, and he wanted to live on a farm in the country, outside of Chulmleigh.  He’s married now, I think.  And fat.”

“You’ll own that the moniker is misleading.”

“Oh!  Well, it’s joke, between us.  She loved him madly, and he set the pattern, hasn’t he?  She’ll date all sorts, really, but when she sees somebody like Davey…” 

Meena looked up, and her slight frown indicated late realisation that this was probably one of those private memories Molly never meant to share with Sherlock Holmes.  But, as best friend who was privy to all of Molly’s hopes and fears, Meena could not help but relish the dressing down of this consulting detective.

“Yeah, Tom was the closest,” she added nonchalantly.  You thought you were the standard, her sly smile seemed to say, and Sherlock had to inwardly admit this arrogant assumption. “He had the look, even that golden retriever friendliness that I hated.  But, like David Dyer, Tom wanted a family too soon, and you know how ambitious Molly is.  Her first London boyfriend, Branwell, actually found this exact photo and totally flipped out about the likeness between Dan and himself.  Molly told him that she couldn’t help having a type.  He called her a lunatic.  Now _that_ had been a very bad break up.”

Then she seemed to take pity on him, and softened some of the sharpness in her eyes.  “But she seems to be doing well, eh?  The memories are coming back like clockwork.  She’s even told me a few things we had both forgotten before you conked her on the head with your microscope.”

“She remembers nothing of me,” Sherlock felt unreasonably compelled to tell her.  Mycroft might have called his tone pouting, but Mycroft was a prat who knew nothing. 

“Really?  That’s weird.  She even remembered John and Mary,” Meena said, genuinely baffled, and did not notice how her words smarted.  She might have continued, when they heard skidding, hurried footsteps, and the Employees Only doors swung open, revealing a panting, giddy Molly.

“Oh good, you’re still here!  Meena, you come too!  It’s bloody brilliant!”  With an “eek,” the girl whirled away, fully expecting them to follow.

Sherlock easily caught up with Molly, and observed her from the corner of his eyes.  How dare she?  He had every last facet of her character pegged.  And now he found out about first loves, and unknown ambitions, and impressive drinking habits and—oh, it was insupportable how much she had hidden from him! 

They made their way to the morgue, where most of the wet work had been taken care of, and the counters were bare.  Well, almost bare—

“Molly, did you spill something—“ Meena began to ask worriedly when her friend, quite without warning, took a striker to the Bunsen burner, and then used that to set a wooden swab aflame.  Just as Sherlock figured what she was about, Molly tossed it onto the liquid she had carefully dribbled onto the counter.

The design flared up beautifully into ghoulish green flames, and they all stepped back to observe the pyromaniac artwork.  Sherlock tilted his head.  Meena covered her smiling mouth in awe before joining Molly in her uproarious cackling.

“Is it a skull performing fellatio?” he asked, thoroughly puzzled.

Molly gasped, highly offended, as Meena doubled over in laughter, setting her box on the floor as she tried to catch her breath.

“What?  No!  It’s a snake coming out of a skull.”

He tried to see it, but failed.  “That long part.  That’s the shaft, right?”

Molly sighed, and stepped closer to point it out.  “No!  That’s the snake’s neck.  And that’s the snake’s head, not the balls.”

Her hand floated too close to the flames for his liking, and before he could blink, Sherlock reached out and captured her fingers in a firm grip to draw it away.

A warm shudder of something shot through her when he did, and Molly quite forgot what she had been saying.  Unbeknownst to her, the same frisson sizzled up Sherlock’s spine, and his mouth fell open in a singular expression of frightened surprise.  Meena was absorbed by the dark “magic” before her, and in consequence entirely missed the long seconds during which Sherlock grasped Molly’s warm hand with his callused fingers, and did not let go.  They did not look at one another, and instead focused at their joined hands, as if the appendages themselves had betrayed them.

Attraction?  An aberration, Sherlock decided unsteadily.  An addictive one, some evil part of his mind added shrewdly and was ignored.  But his subconscious was right; lust so rarely struck Sherlock as oft as it did his fellow men that it was only natural that when the occasion arose, he craved more.

An alarm, an actual, literal alarm sounded, and Molly jumped from whatever hypnotic spell his touch induced, choosing to babble loudly as she pulled away.

“This is the mark, the Dark Mark, from, um…Barty Crouch…Junior!  Yes…ah…the Doctor sent the Dark Mark into the sky at the Quidditch World Cup?” 

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged at her—he physically felt the need to shrug off the tingling, indescribable feeling off his back.  He felt nothing for Molly; assuredly, he was just intrigued by her unusual mischief. 

She continued, a bit more concerned when his blue-green gaze remained blank, “Death Eaters, Harry Potter…?  Good God, you don’t know Harry Potter?  Are you English?”

He was about to retort that not only was he English, but also that the entire kingdom and HRH owed him multiple debts of gratitude when the doors burst open, Mike saw the flames, swore loudly, and hurtled his rotund body to the nearest fire extinguisher, an action that had not even occurred to the three.  As he put out the flame with the retardant specially designed for chemical fires, he glared at the lot of them. 

“So we’re happy to ignore the safety alarms, are we?” 

Sherlock shrugged in response.  The other two did not bother to answer.

“Molly!” Meena gushed, grasping her shoulders.  They had to all speak a little louder until Mike called somebody or other on the work phone to get the alarm to cease its piercing sirens.  “That book came out in 2000, and the film in 2005!  Tennant became the Doctor around then as well. Look at you, getting better, all on your own!”  Her colleague was less pleased.

“The fuck, Molly, I leave for one second and you—you—what did you do?”  Mike had his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Oh, um…you said I was basically in charge…I found some trimethyl borate,” Molly explained, now looking a little mournful.  “Sorry.”

“Why even have trimethyl borate if not for stunts like this?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowed. “It literally has no other use than to look nice burning.”

Molly sent him an appreciative look, and gave a conspirator’s smile.  He found himself smiling back, just as sneakily.

“It’s a precursor to sodium borohydride, you bellend,” Mike bit out.

“Oh, he’s quite angry,” Sherlock observed to Molly and Meena.  “He hasn’t called me that in years.”

“We use sodium borohydride as a reducing agent,” Molly helpfully told Meena, who looked lost.  Her friend shrugged helplessly at this information, and opted to stay out of all discussions related to organic chemistry.  But they were both pleased that Molly remembered that bit of science as well. 

“Out,” Mike ordered, pointing them all towards the doors to the hall.  “And Molly…please don’t come back until you remember all safety regulations.  You have plenty of leave; use as much as you need.”

“Right.  Sorry.  I don’t know what came over me,” she apologised guilelessly.  Then, in the lift, she declared without any qualms, “Actually, I do know what came over me.  I know I’ve wanted to do that for ages and have never had the bottle.  This whole amnesia thing was a convenient excuse to do it without getting sacked.”

Meena and Molly dissolved into giggles once more as her brash naughtiness, and even Sherlock had to pretend to clear his throat to prevent joining in their merriment.  He didn’t want to encourage such unsafe laboratory practise—

Pot, have you met kettle?  He thought abruptly, and he was bewildered to find the words had a hint of Molly’s voice to them. 

They made their way out of St. Bart’s and stood for a moment at the front entrance.  Molly had been pleased as Punch with herself, but then suddenly frowned and searched the milling pedestrians around them uncertainly.

“I feel like someone’s staring?” 

Sherlock directed her to face her four o’clock.  He blatantly pointed at one dodgy looking man behind some bins with a camera.  “That’s a photographer.  I’m a little bit famous.”

“ _Really?_   What on earth _for_?”

Molly hadn’t meant to sound so shocked that Sherlock Holmes had some cause for celebrity, but the damage was done.  Sherlock scowled and Meena laughed riotously at her tone.

“Right.  I’ve got to go if I’m going to make it to a brunch meeting,” Meena said after wiping away her mirthful tears, “but I wanted to drop this off for you to look through.”  She handed the memory box to her friend.  “Sherlock, do you mind…”

“I’m not a child,” Molly huffed, taking on the burden.  “I can get home on my own.”

“True enough,” Sherlock agreed, raising his arm for half a second before a taxi pulled to the curb.  “But I am headed west.  Do you want to share a taxi part of the way?”

Molly agreed to this indifferent invitation and thanked her friend for her help.  They tittered promises of upcoming brunch dates as the driver pulled away, and Molly looked ready to open her box when Sherlock’s phone notified him of a text message. 

“Change of plans,” he murmured as he read Lestrade’s request.  “Pull over here.  Get out Molly, I have to head southeast.”

“Well, get out and head southeast then,” she suggested, confused by his rudeness.  The car came to an idling standstill, but neither occupant gave up the ride.

“Yes, but you are only heading home, whereas my expertise is needed at a murder scene.”  They frowned at one another.  “My work is more important than your convenience,” he explained as if she were a slow child.

“Your work,” she growled, “wouldn’t even be possible today if I hadn’t helped you years ago.”

His eyes widened at her steely tone, and he opened his mouth in appalled shock.  “It is unkind of you to remind me,” Sherlock told her, voice low and slow in a way that was dangerous, even if she did not remember why.

“It is unkind of you to forget,” she responded, just as darkly, with cheeks in high colour.  Oh, but she was practically salivating for a fight. 

He could have torn her apart; released all the devastating observations of her life, or lack thereof, that he had held back in deference to her condition.  He could have cheerfully laid waste to all that pride she took in her situation, if only…

If only…

If only he was certain that doing so would make him happy.  Judging by how he felt the last time he had done so on that wretched Christmas Eve, he wasn’t entirely so sure he would enjoy it now. 

Besides, she was right.

“Oi, are you getting out or what?”  the driver demanded.

When Sherlock didn’t answer, and only twitched his cheek in tiny acknowledgement, Molly spoke for the both of them.  “Give him the address, Sherlock, and we’ll go to this crime scene together.”

Then, as regal as you please, she settled back against the seat and did not give him a morsel of attention until they arrived.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos, follows, and comments! Be warned this chapter is unbeta-ed, as I inundated my beta at a stressful time, and couldn't bear to burden her with this uselessly fluffy chapter. 
> 
> A note about the rating change: Aaagh, this is the first heterosexual mature content I've publicly published, and I'm just hoping it's decent. I have this tendency to spill it out and avoid looking at it later. So, yes...there's that.
> 
> Since I probably won't update before then... I hope everybody enjoys their holidays and the Abominable Bride! :)

 

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t like this, Sherlock decided as he stood by the eyeless corpse, still waiting to be wrapped for shipping and handling.  He didn’t like this one bit.

All right, so it had been _mildly_ fortunate that Molly came with him and identified the spiked contacts left in the victim’s bloodied eyes.  Said contacts were the same used by morticians who needed to keep eyelids shut—they shrank back, like all cadavers’ skin, allowing a half open look that nobody enjoyed at funerals.  Considering the fact the eye had been as pierced as a pin cushion, and fairly coated with blood, they quickly concluded that the ocular torture had been the heinous work of a crooked funeral director who’d been dabbling in illegal hobbies of late. 

This business was concluded in a matter of twenty minutes.  Sherlock was adamant that he would have solved it himself, and Molly was only lucky; she had wandered away from the body to observe something near the dock, and nearly stepped on the detached eyeball the other investigators had missed. 

That should have been the end of it, but Sherlock was anchored to the location because of Molly’s conversation with a new police assistant.  Marcus.

“Like a search for murder clues,” she sang under her breath shortly after explaining the contacts, “In dead man’s eyes…”

“You a fan?” the boy asked with a quick grin.

“Of?” she asked, startled at being heard and by the odd question.

“The Arctic Monkeys?  You were singing them, just now… ‘This House is a Circus’ innit?”

“Am I a fan,” Molly scoffed, clearly all bravado.  “I’ve ears, don’t I?”

The boy laughed in agreement.  Marcus was scribbling something down on a notepad, and missed how Molly turned to Sherlock and Donovan to mouth “I’ve no idea” with a slow shake of her head before quickly snapping to attention when he looked up. 

“Yeah, fair point.  Reckon they’ve taken a weird turn lately though.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, over time,” she murmured, hoping that was a vague enough assessment of this ridiculously named band.  “Um, when did that album come out again?”

Marcus, a blonde man of average height, weight, and intelligence, squinted up at the patchy sky as he thought.  “Favourite Worst Nightmare?  Well, let’s see, I remember I got it as a gift for my seventeenth birthday so…2007, I think?”

“Oh well done Molly,” she congratulated herself.  She even reached with her right hand to pat her own back over her left shoulder.  Sherlock rolled his eyes even as Sally Donovan audibly snorted with laughter.

“Sorry?” the boy asked.

“Oh, I’m just having trouble remembering some things past 1999, so I’m well pleased when I accidentally do it.”

He seemed to take that in stride, and nodded.  “I know a fairly good tribute band, called the Frigid Primates, and they’re playing this Friday.  They even style their hair in that slick, arsehole way.  Are you free?”

“Well, I can honestly say I don’t know of any plans,” Molly was giggling, and Sherlock had had enough.

“Sherlock, don’t—“ he heard Lestrade call out—beg, really—as he swiftly approached the two and stared down haughtily at them. 

“Impossible.  As Molly here poorly explained, she is missing large quantities of her memories, and she therefore lacks the necessary knowledge of her preferred criteria in potential partners.  To attempt to date her would be the same as seducing an incapacitated woman.”

Marcus blinked.  “What?”  Only, if he was to spell it phonetically, Sherlock would have said that the forgettable policeman had just said “Wot?” like a perfect buffoon.

“You would be taking advantage of a near-vegetable,” he explained succinctly, and Molly’s mouth dropped open at this hyperbole, aghast.  “I’ll save you the trouble of wondering of what could have been, seeing as I’ve known her for years and am familiar with her taste.  These are the reasons you would not suit:

Your clothes are neatly pressed but not quite the right size.  Your mum, with whom you still live—sorry, she lives with you, a notable distinction, I’m sure,” he added with just the right amount of scathing irony, “wants you to feel better about the weight you’ve gained by preparing your clothes and letting out the seams where possible.  Chances are you won’t return to the size you wish because of your preference to greasy burgers from fast food restaurants, the remnants of which is still on your tie.  Your poor posture and failing vision suggests long hours before a monitor, but the low education and professional standing suggests no slaving away at a worthwhile pursuits, no…  Many a day is wasted for make believe worlds and make believe quests in video games.  A significant other might be able to tear your attention away from such time wasters, but the last time you tried to date, you—“

“SHUT UP SHERLOCK!” Molly exploded, eyes shining with unshed tears.  The sight stymied him; why was she crying, when he wasn’t even talking about her? 

“How—who—what are you?”

He could not immediately answer such a loaded question and she did not bother to see if he could.  To the astonishment of all present, Molly stared at him with abject disgust, before roughly brushing past him and hailing a taxi just as she approached the curb. 

And he was left with the police and a body, feeling peculiarly alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly sighed as the dim light of early evening made her building look awash in a depressing pale blue. Home had been within her sight for a while now, but she slowed her steps the closer she got.

She didn’t want to “go home” because it didn’t feel like home.  Lovely as it was to be on one’s own and have ice cream and wine for dinner—never again!—it didn’t feel right.  Mum’s house with Julie felt right.  And as cool as it had been to learn she basically had run of the lab, she felt a little useless in it not knowing how to help process bodies.   And as gorgeous as her temporary minder was—

She unlocked the door with one hand as she undid the button and zip of her jeans with the other.  She was rather good at undressing in a hurry, for she had always found socially acceptable fashions stifling, and usually changed into her home clothes as soon as possible at home.  She quickly stepped out of her jeans and would have pulled her blouse off with one hand if not—

“Molly, stop!”

“Jesus Christ!” she shrieked, jumping and whirling at the same time.  Her foot landed on the pile of denim she had just shed, and she slipped before landing her bum on the hardwood.  There was a stunned moment of silence before they started yelling frantically at one another.

“What do you think you’re doing undressing even before you’ve locked the door?  As you so enthusiastically repeated yesterday, this is London, Molly, not Chulmleigh!  You can’t just allow yourself to be so vulnerable, especially while being associated with me—“

“Who in the bloody fuck just sits in the dark like some brooding, poor man’s Byron, waiting to catch women in their smalls?  I have every right to go through my daily home habits while I’m in _my home_ , and besides, you said you’re often out until late—“

Three bangs, probably from the end of a broomstick, sounded from below, and they paused for breath.  Molly rose, glaring at him, and locked the door before facing him with crossed arms.  Her bottom lip protruded slightly in a pout, and, even if faced with a firing squad, Sherlock would never have admitted to a living soul he found it pleasing. 

No, “pleasing” wasn’t the right word.

Tempting?

God, that was worse!

Bite-able. 

All right Sherlock, that’s not even proper English, he chided himself inwardly.  You stop trying to describe Molly’s bottom lip before you have an aneurysm. 

“Were you wanking, then?” she asked cautiously with a wince.

“What? No!”

“Don’t shout at me!  When men just sit in dark corners, all sneaky-like, it’s not unusual for them to be pervs.”

 “Molly, if I wanted a wank, I would have at least done it in a locked room.  And sitting in dark corners waiting for people doesn’t automatically make one a perv, honestly.” 

“So you just often wait in the dark?”

“Not…often…”

“But you do?” she prodded, sounding infuriatingly superior.  “Like, for dramatic effect?  You wait until somebody comes home, sit silently while they settle in, and then say something casually like, ‘I expected you sooner’ so that they can have a heart attack at your amusement.”

He flared his nostrils, for, truth to tell, he had been ready to tell her just that before she started her pole jockey routine.  Sherlock bit out, “I do not sound like that,” referring to her ridiculous faux-low voice.

“I do not sound like that,” she mocked him, still lowering her voice and sounding like an idiot while she pulled on her jeans.  “You’re just ornery because I’ve found out that sitting around in the dark for theatrical surprises is something you do, and you’re embarrassed because you’ve never realised until now how hopelessly ludicrous it is.  Just say ‘hello’ for god’s sake!”

“If you’re quite done?” he demanded, not wishing to pursue the issue.  He sat back down on her overstuffed chair.  Molly gave something suspiciously close to a sniff, and sat on her couch before bidding him to continue.  He would not brook any huffiness from her; he had already wasted time when he assumed that she was at Meena’s.

“Where were you?”  he demanded, probably sounding a bit harsher than the situation necessitated. 

“The library,” she answered with a sullen shrug.  She pulled her legs up to hug her shins, and rested her chin on her knees.  “But they kicked me out.”

That sounded very out of character.  At his frown, she further explained, “After your horrible, horrific, absolutely gutting analysis of Michael—“

“Marcus,” he corrected, absurdly pleased she did not even remember the man’s name.

“Yes, I felt just—just horrendous.  Like it was my fault—which I know, it wasn’t, but to see his face, go from happy to sad, to dejected, to, god, almost suicidal—“

If he had her dangerously developed sense of empathy, Sherlock estimated, he’d want to die from sheer exhaustion. 

“Molly,” he warned, “focus.”

“Right, after all that, I just wanted to find some comfort.  Science always makes me happy, but I still don’t know my laptop password so I went to the library to see if I could just find some information there.  They had scientific journals, of course, and I was working my way through the year-end reviews of the last ten years when they asked me to go.  They said I had been making ‘intimate noises,’ whatever that means.”

Sherlock didn’t know where to look, for if he settled his eyes on her now, he would try to imagine her doing just that.  It didn’t help that he had just seen more of her body than he had ever expected to—what did she think she was doing, having a body like that?!  All curves and softness and, really, there was absolutely nothing wrong with her hips—

“And were you?” he asked his feet.

“I dunno!  We’ve just come so far, haven’t we!  All the amazing developments in stem cell research, and natural orifice surgery, and 3D printed body parts, and—and I guess I get a little enthusiastic!  But who could blame me?”

“Oh I envy you,” he said without thinking, now meeting her eager expression.  “I’d love to hear all about all those things for the first time, again.”

“I know, it’s brilliant!” she gushed.  “I almost don’t want my memory to come back, because I see I’ve bought loads of books, and one thing I’ve always wanted was to reread some of my favourites, but as if I had no idea what was happening.  Pity that the Potter series came back to me.”  She laughed, remembering her earlier trouble that day, and Sherlock found himself smirking as well.

When she calmed, Molly blushed.  “I guess I should have asked for a private reading room.  But the damage was done.  And I ought to have come home sooner any way, for Toby.”

“I fed him.”  It was either feed him to stop that pitiful meowing, or throw the damn mongrel out the window.

“Oh, good.  Thanks.”  She bit her lip, and rested her cheek on her knee so that she could observe him better.  “So that thing you did, earlier today…that’s what everybody’s warned me about.”

“Who is everybody?” he asked in even, measured tones, privately wondering whom he should verbally skewer next.

“Well, you know…Greg, Meena, the doctor—I forget his name, um…Mike, Mr. Hertsford my landlord, ah…Sally Donovan, um, who else…oh yes, Mary Watson—“

“She’s out of town!”

“She texted me,” Molly explained with a shrug.  “Sorry…I guess it’s flattering, though, that your reputation is so widespread?”

He said nothing to this patronising comfort, and she swallowed before apparently summoning all her bravery to ask delicately, “But…must you?”

“Must I what?”

“Did you have to humiliate him like that?  I wasn’t going to go with him, you know; I hate tribute bands.  You could have just made up something instead of—well—“

“I didn’t create the circumstances of his life, Molly.  I’m simply an observant man—it’s one of the things you admire about me, if you’ll remember.”

The casual phrase stung, for they both knew that she _didn’t_.  “Yes, but…it’s unkind of you to deduce unnecessarily.  Did you know that he also volunteers for the RSPCA?”

“Who?”

“Mich—no, Marcus.”

He stiffened.  “And how do you know that?”

“I called Greg to make sure that Marcus was all right,” she said with a shrug.  “And he said that he was fine, and he’s gone to see his dogs to cheer himself up.  Then I of course asked how many dogs did he have and why aren’t they at his own home, and then Greg said that they weren’t his dogs, not really, but the dogs he takes care of at the—“

“Molly, please,” he groaned as if in pain, and made a show of rubbing his temples. 

She narrowed her eyes at him and twitched her nose in annoyance.  “My point is you do your little analysis on people meanly.  You talked about his worst circumstances, just to mortify him.  It was totally avoidable.  You need not publicly state the facts of another person’s situation, simply to feel superior.”  When Sherlock remained sulkily taciturn, she added gently, “It didn’t feel nice, did it, when I reminded you of your debt to me, this morning?  In the cab?”

“No,” he muttered, turning his head to look out the window, where night had fully fallen and the street lamps had lit up. 

“And I’m sorry,” Molly said, with an apologetic smile.  “I don’t remember exactly what I did for you, but I’m sure that, when I had done it, I had had no intention of holding it over your head years later.”

“No,” he agreed resentfully, refusing to see the parallels between the two situations.  “It was most unlike you.”

“And you prefer the real me, then?  Not the this-me?”

“The syntax of those questions is giving me actual nausea of this conversation.”

“If you become any more bombastic, I will suffocate from the overwhelming pomp, right here, right now.”

“Molly, it is unlike you to be so—“ Clever.  Confident.  At least, not around him.  It was beginning to occur to Sherlock that Molly’s annoying habits were not naturally her own but of a behaviour borne in reaction to his presence.  The possibility irked him.  “Cheeky.  Do stop.”

“Why?  Are you going to do your wondrous analysis on me?” she goaded, and stopped teasing when he opted to look out the window again instead of giving an answer.  “Oh.”

So much disappointment, in one little syllable. 

“You have already, I guess,” she said dully.

“Several times.”  He owed her that much.

“And how did I take it?”

He sighed and turned to meet her nervous gaze.  “Not well.”

“Knowing me…I suppose I cried a few times.”

“No tears actually fell, at least from what I saw,” he said truthfully.

She shook her head, clearly baffled by his actions, in the same way she shook her head at the Christmas party.  “But you did it again?  Even after you saw it hurt my feelings?  You would do it again?”

She didn’t want answers, not really, and Sherlock was not inclined.  He had never been so ashamed of his past—only reminders of his drug use made him feel so low.  Arranged like this, laid out so bare and blunt, his actions were undeniably regrettable. 

“I’m just an arse, Molly,” he admitted, forsaking his usual eloquence for the stark truth.  “I just am.”

The conversation clearly had to go on, for “I’m just an arse” was not enough to convey the proper way to handle him, yet he did not know how to continue. 

But she was patient.  Comfortably, she waited until he indicated he had something to say.  After a few minutes, he cleared his throat and said neutrally:

“I am not in the habit of explaining myself, but, as these are unusual circumstances that could be misconstrued as my fault, I will give you this to help you understand: I am unapologetically intelligent, unsympathetic, and impatient, and thus, it has been difficult to maintain social connections.  The few people who choose to stay connected to me are resilient—or rather, they _should be_ resilient.  I have diagnosed myself as a high functioning sociopath, but then again I’ve also been told that this is offensive to actual sociopaths and I am actually just a dickhead.”  Mary had said that, the sweetheart.  “In the past few years, I have made progress in terms of ‘choosing my battles,’ but I still miscalculate the situation every so often.  For whatever reason, you all tolerate these mista—these miscalculations.  I am grateful that you do, and would appreciate it if such tolerance could continue until my ability to read situations is perfected.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

Then Molly sighed and murmured thoughtlessly, “God I love your voice.  I want to bathe in it.”

“Molly!”  Good god, he was blushing!  He could feel himself grow red hot from his toes to his head!    “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

“With relish!” she laughed and sighed with an understanding smile.  “And I get it, Sherlock.  It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  Some of us—all right, most of us learn how to stop being showy jackasses in our twenties.  You’re just a little delayed, is all.”

“That…is not what I was saying.  At all.  You must be making an effort to be this stupid.”

“Well, even if that’s not what you wanted to say, that’s what I heard.  We’re all born with natural talents; mine is karaoke and the quickest one-handed undoing of trousers you’ll ever see.  Yours is eloquence and observation.  You like to show off.  You’re still learning when not to show off.  It’s fine!”

Sherlock was speechless for a moment.  When she simplified it like that, it made him look like a child.  And despite Lestrade’s, Mrs. Hudson’s, John’s, Mary’s, Donovan’s, Anderson’s, and his family’s assertions, Sherlock did not like to think of himself as childish at all. 

And it didn’t help that she kept that maddening smile on her small lips, one part patronising and three parts teasing.

“I am also an impressive violinist,” he informed her haughtily, in a desperate attempt to appear more mature. 

“Are you?” she asked brightly.  “Did you bring one from your flat?”

“No, it’s at the repair shop.  I had thrown it out after the microscope.  I hadn’t noticed you had been knocked unconscious.  Luckily, it had landed on your stomach, so there was only minor damage.”

Molly dropped the smile entirely now, and Sherlock fought to stamp out the urge to smile at her stony expression.  “Do you remember John and Mary’s wedding?”

“Parts.  Good wine, I think?”

“Yes.  I played it for their first dance.”

She frowned as she stood and stretched.  “Did you?  I can’t recall.”

“Yes, well…it was just an insignificant melody,” he sighed, refusing to explore why her mental gap when it came to him bothered him so much.  He stood and followed her to the small kitchen, and spoke to her back as she searched for proper supper materials in the cupboards.  “Perhaps you just would rather block the memory of arses in general from your life,” Sherlock suggested lightly.

“A nice theory, but then I’d probably not remember Mycroft at all,” she replied as she turned to rummage through her freezer.

Sherlock stilled, and grabbed her shoulder to turn her so that she faced him.  “You remember my brother?  But not me?”

“Yes.  I saw an obviously wealthy man with the poshest umbrella I had ever seen when the taxi stopped this morning, and it reminded me of the time—“

“All right, Molly, that’s enough,” he declared flatly.

“What?”

“The jig is up!”  Sherlock felt he ought to have flourished a cape and twirled a mustache when saying such a ridiculous sentence. 

“What jig?”

“You’re clearly just winding me up.  You most likely perfectly recall everything between us, and you’re just pretending so you can hurt my feelings.”

“Oh,” she gasped pityingly.  “Am I hurting your feelings?  I am sorry, Sherlock, if I could remember, I would, but I can’t—“

“I didn’t say that you are actually hurting my feelings!” he all but shouted, pulling away from her to stomp down the hall.  “I just said that you’re trying!  I couldn’t care less if you expunge every last scrap of our time together.”

“Well, perhaps we can just sit and you can tell me—“

“No, it would be a waste of time.  It means nothing to me.  I’m busy with a plethora of projects, projects you couldn’t begin to understand.  Good night!”

Another three resounding bangs from the flat below signaled the end of that conversation.  Molly leaned against the fridge and sighed.  Lord, she was knackered.  Sherlock Holmes, whoever he was to her, was such an exhausting man.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock heard a creak, and sat up instantly, pointing the weapon with both hands towards the source of the sound.

“Oh, god, sorry, I just—is that a gun?”

He hesitated as he lowered it, clicking the safety on before returning it to the open drawer of her nightstand.  “Can I say ‘no’ and successfully avoid a lecture?” he tried.

Molly opened her mouth to argue but then sighed. “Well, let’s stave it off for another time.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

“My room,” she corrected politely.  “And I was definitely not admiring your half naked body under my sheets, if that’s what you’re wondering.”  Then, in the next moment, he heard her mutter under her breath, “Good save Molly.”

Sherlock was feeling generous, and so ignored the last bit.  “I’ve been told that waiting in dark corners is a habit of perverts,” he reminded her pointedly as he shrugged on his pyjama top, which had been hanging on the bedpost. 

“I’m not in a corner!  I’m in my closet!”

“And that’s better how?”

“Well, won’t you feel perfectly asinine when I tell you,” she warned, pulling the chain switch on the lonely light bulb of her closet.  Sherlock saw she was wearing grey pyjama bottoms and a too-large green vest top, sans bra.  But he noticed everything, and there was definitely no reason other than his natural inclinations for observation that his eyes lingered on her loosely clothed form. 

Molly was saying, “I’m looking for a diary.  I ought to have written multiple volumes by now.”

“You had a blog, but the first entry was criminally dull.  I didn’t read the rest of it, and you didn’t continue it for more than a few months.”

Molly stuck her tongue out at him and continued her search, tiptoeing so that she could shove aside the piles of rubbish on the shelf above her hanging clothes.  “Any way, your little tantrum—“

“It was not a tantrum!”

“—made me feel just awful, and I couldn’t sleep.  Then I figured if I at least read some of our past, something will come up.  I also figured it’s my only recourse, since you adamantly refuse to reminisce with me.”

“I don’t adamantly refuse to, I just…” Don’t want to, he finished mentally.  He felt enough like a monster when she stared at him and asked him what he was today—he squinted at the clock—no, that was yesterday.  He did not want to relive all of his worst behaviour with her. 

“Maybe you didn’t write any diaries,” he suggested grumpily, falling back onto the bed. 

“Oh but I must have.  I’ve written diaries all my life, usually averaging one book a year.”

“And I’m sure it’s perfectly thrilling material,” he droned dryly, pulling a pillow over his face to block out the light.  “Have you checked the spare room closet?”

“Yes, but it’s full of Toby’s medical papers and drugs.  Apparently he was a bit of a fixer-upper when I adopted him.”

“Hmm.  You’re mistaken if you think he’s no longer a broker-downer.”

“Sherlock!  Toby is a kind, patient, wonderful—“

He didn’t very much care and told her so.  “I am positive this can wait till morning,” the consulting detective added pointedly.

“I’m going to ignore you being such an unmitigated prat for the time being because you did not eat dinner and we’ll blame your churlishness on hunger,” she decided generously.  “Oh, I’ve hidden them well and good!  Perhaps I did it when you stayed with me during your fake death?”

“Well that was hardly necessary,” Sherlock yawned, “I wouldn’t have cared enough to ferret them out.”

“Charming,” he heard her say flatly.  There was the sound of the chain switch being quickly pulled.  Soft footsteps.  Then he felt the bed dip slightly, and the haunting traces of Molly from the bedclothes languorously engulfed him, despite the pillow barrier.  Sherlock pulled the pillow away and just barely managed to discern her outline next to him, sitting close.

“I just can’t sleep,” she sighed, words softer, perhaps in respect to the resumed darkness.  “I don’t feel right.  I’d like to regain all my memories now, so that I can feel like myself again.  Even Toby doesn’t want to snuggle me, and I think his cat senses are telling him I’m not the same; he stays away at night.”

Sherlock yawned, and used the opportunity to scoot farther from the edge, and away from her enticing body heat.  “Well, I did deposit drops of modified feline pheromones around the guest room mattress, to see how he reacted.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.  You were gone, I was bored.”  He shrugged.

“Where do you even get—“  Then Molly decided that words only got so far with Sherlock, something he should have realised sooner.  If he had, he would have predicted the smothering pillow she applied to his face.

“I need comfort from the most adorable cat in the world,” she was practically ranting as she tried to kill him, “and you have devised a way to keep him away from me!”

Defending himself was natural, flipping her off his body was easy, and then finding himself on top of her was just cliché.

The thing that saved it from one of those vomit-worthy moments out of the repugnant romantic comedy films she loved was the fact that he had the pillow over her face, and she was blindly slapping above her. 

(He decided he’d give her self-defence lessons, for if he was truly trying to suffocate her, her pitiful swats would have done nothing except amuse her attacker.)

A few of her attempts did manage to land on his face, and so he threw aside the pillow to grab her hands, and would have pinned them to the mattress above her head—she wouldn’t mind that, from what he saw of her bookmarked erotic online stories—if he hadn’t forgotten about the headboard and wall.

“Ow,” she whined when the backs of her hands hit the wood.  “Sherlock!”

“You started it!”

“All right, mercy,” she muttered, and he released her wrists.  “Your grip is strong,” she noticed as she rubbed her joints.

“I’m a strong person,” he said, falsely modest. 

“Yes you are,” she sighed, and Sherlock could have sworn he felt rather than saw Molly’s eyes wander down his torso.  He should have buttoned his top, but how was he to know what kind of lech she was?

He tried to ease off and back to the farther side of the bed, but his elbow slipped when he leaned on it; half of his body fell onto her shoulder, and she yelped in pain.  Quickly, he pulled himself up and off, and propped up on his side to look down at her, touching the injured part softly.

“Sorry!  It was an accident.”

“It’s all right, I shouldn’t have come in.  Wait—it’s my bed, why am I apologising?”

His fingers lingered on the smooth skin of her shoulder, inexplicably ghosting over her clavicle. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, I-I’m fine.”  She was stuttering.  The flesh beneath the pads of his fingers noticeably warmed and rose in goose bumps. 

Molly may have forgotten how they met.  Molly may have forgotten the work they did together.  But, by her own admission, Molly could not forget how her body reacted to his.  And, while that might have exasperated him the past, tonight Sherlock found that particular steadiness lovely.

“W-what are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I honestly don’t know, he wanted to say.  “Checking for damage,” he instead answered casually. 

“I’m fine.  I’m fine,” she assured him and then tried to raise herself up, not waiting for him to back away from hovering over her.

She should have waited.  She should have given him time to lean back.  But she didn’t, and moved up, and he didn’t move and stayed still, and their faces awkwardly collided in the inky blackness of her room.

In the first second, he had been glad that her open mouth landed on his cheek.  That meant it wasn’t a kiss.  He felt the brief damp sharpness of her teeth, and then the soft warm puff of her breath—she was gasping, poor thing—against his left cheek bone.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine.”

Except it wasn’t, because neither of them shifted, and now it was his fault as much as it was hers.  Slowly, he felt her move until her words made the same, warm breath against his lips.

“Sherlock?”

He couldn’t respond, but hoped she could see him nod, encouraging her to keep talking, oh god keep talking and maybe nothing would happen.  Sherlock almost spoke, except he had a feeling that if he moved his lips at all, even just one degree, he would have veritably launched himself against her mouth.

“I—obviously I—“ Molly gulped, and he heard it.  “I want to kiss you.  But I don’t know if there’s anything in our past that should prevent me from doing that.  Is there?”

Now he swallowed, and he had never known such a warring dichotomy inside himself.  He wanted this—it was enraging how much he wanted this—but every speck of rationality told him it was one of his worst ideas since trying cocaine.  Hadn’t he just lectured Marcus earlier, saying she was an incapacitated woman unfit for romancing?

Lie, an insidious voice in his mind encouraged.

Tell her the truth.  Tell her you deserve nothing like this, and have sneered at her romantic attempts before, and if she had any shred of dignity she’d run for the hills rather than let this disaster unfold.

Good god, was that his conscience?  It was strident, and it was no wonder he barely listened to it. 

“None whatsoever,” he said before closing the distance between their mouths himself.  His hand reached up behind her to bury his fingers in her hair, clutching her head close as he leaned back so that he lay supine and she was forced to lie atop of his left side.  His other hand slid around her, wrapping around her waist to press her tightly against him.  Again and again, their mouths met in soft, insistent brushes, his tongue reaching out to gently run against hers, until she was panting against him.  Molly whimpered as he deepened the kiss and roughly pulled her so that her body perfectly aligned against his, and he devoured her little noises like a starving man.  In the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that he was gripping her too hard, and ought to let go, perhaps not press so deeply as his hands ran down the length of her spine to the curve of her bum, and maybe not squeeze her hips so brutally, but a deep seated instinct made him fear that she would take flight.  So his touch remained possessive and she expressed no complaint.  Going by the sound she cried out when he blindly found and licked at her pulse hard, Molly approved of everything he was doing.

But he didn’t stray long from her willing mouth, and it took three attempts on Molly’s part to pull away before he learned that the snogging was done.  Each time she broke the deep, scorching kiss, he swooped up to resume it, until, the third time, she managed to be heard against his lips, “Sherlock, your mobile is vibrating.”

“I don’t care,” he assured her, breathing hard, and tried to coax her head back down. 

“But it could be from Scotland Yard!” she protested as she, still in his grip, twisted away to turn on the lamp on her bedside table.  He winced at the unexpected light and frowned at her before turning to the hated object.  Now they could both see the mobile, lighting up and buzzing in place.  At this indecent hour, it was very likely the Met.

“Hang them,” Sherlock retorted, voice noticeably darker now that she successfully pulled herself into a sitting position.  Both straps of her vest top had been pulled down her shoulders, and the hem had ridden up considerably.  But most enticing region of her torso remained covered.  Next time he ought to decide upon a disrobing strategy and stick to it.

Next time? his mind echoed in alarm.

“We could…ehm, continue this later?” she offered uncertainly, as if reading his thoughts.

Bewildered, Sherlock sat up and ran both hands through his hair.  His forehead and neck felt damp, and he learned that he had perspired considerably during this brief interlude.  Perhaps Molly was hot.  Perhaps Molly had made him hot, a thing would have been impossible last week.  Perhaps he had gone mad and the real Sherlock was currently becoming intimate with the padded walls of an asylum room. 

“Right,” he agreed hoarsely.  Thankful for the distraction, he reached for the mobile on the opposite night stand, and saw it was indeed a request from Lestrade.  He rose, and burned with embarrassment when he saw he had to arrange his pyjama bottoms to hide some bodily reaction.  “I’ll just be off.  Don’t wait up.”

Sherlock was half afraid he’d have to order her out so that he could change, but the woman darted out of the room as soon as she was able.  It almost hurt his feelings to hear the spare room door lock, but had enough presence of mind to know that it was probably for the best.

Sherlock prided himself on his creative use of language.  English was beautiful and expansive; he usually found the right combination of bon mots that did a better job at conveying his sentiment than the four letter words most people preferred.  But as he dressed and then caught his reflection in Molly’s floor length mirror, Sherlock could hardly recognise himself; his face was pale, his eyes were wild, and his lips were slightly redder than usual.

“Fuck.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Given the easy nature of the mortician’s murder the day prior, Sherlock would normally refuse another request so soon, for he had warned Lestrade time and time again that he didn’t like being called out just because the Met was being especially dense or deplorably lazy.  But the case, tenuously connected to the dock murder, turned out to be enlightening—Santeria inspired homicide, the clues of which had been cunningly hidden by the remnants of a family’s butcher shop—and kept him out until the later hours of morning.  There was even a chase, which Sherlock found rejuvenating.  They left it only mostly solved (which pleased him, for he had been lacking interesting projects) but there were clues that the circumstances might be repeated and linked to other deaths. Part of him wished that John was back to enjoy it with him, but the doctor would be back from Harry’s wedding soon enough.

He returned to Molly’s flat by half ten, and was surprised to learn she was still abed.  As he hung his towel after his shower, he noticed her towel on the other rack was damp and Toby’s food bowl by the tub had been refilled, meaning she had been up for a little bit, but then returned to the guest room.  Outside her door, clad in only his blue striped pyjama bottoms, he hesitated.  Under the scrutiny of daylight, this morning’s kiss looked like the result of the poorest of judgements.  Every possible scenario ended badly for him.

Carry on this way—he’d enjoy the tumbles, but she’d regain her memories, and then she’d have every right to beat him black and blue. 

Refuse to carry on this way—he’d hurt her feelings again, and even the recovery of her memories wouldn’t repair the damage done.

There was the small, almost impossible outcome—he’d confess everything, she’d regain her memories but forgive him, and they’d live happily ever after.

Except he wasn’t sure that he wanted that.  Most normal people liked the idea of “happily ever after,” but the phrase always implied never-ending ennui, in Sherlock’s opinion.  More than likely she wanted a proper relationship, but apparently not a family just yet.  He liked the physical benefits just fine, but he didn’t want to waste time with meaningful talks or social obligations that were part and parcel of a serious relationship.  Sherlock didn’t want to learn the importance of compromise, of sharing, or of commitment. 

Actually, of all scenarios, that last one sounded like both the best and the worst.

So why was he testing to see if her door was still locked?

It gave under his hand, and she shifted slightly at the small creak of the door.  All of her hinges needed oiling, evidently. 

He approached the side of the bed and then stared at her back.  Different vest top.  Still no bra.  Her hair was damp, twisted in a messy bun, and made a wet spot on the pillow case.  He couldn’t see if she had anything on other than pants under the blanket.  As he observed her, he sensed that this feeling was startlingly familiar.

The feeling was the same that ran through his veins when he prepared a seven percent solution for the syringe.  It told him, this is bad.  This is bad, don’t do this, you’re always sorry afterwards, this is bad, bad, bad…

Oh, but it will be so good, slithered in another sibilant thought.  Just for a little bit.  It could be so _good_.

Sherlock knew that, for some reason, his face and form fit into today’s conventions of attractive, and finding physical satisfaction would be a matter of delivering the right words at a pub, or even a simple payment transaction at one of London’s more sophisticated brothels if he didn’t feel up to playacting.  But it wasn’t just physical satisfaction that led him down this wayward path, down which Molly would most likely be hurt later. 

Sherlock was intrigued.  He was curious.  It was not in his nature to fight his investigative urges when something piqued his interest, and so he surrendered to the impulse to save himself the grief of attempted resistance. 

He placed one knee onto the bed, and the new weight on the mattress made her slide slightly.  With little regard to preserving her peace, he quickly joined her, lifting the blanket briefly to tangle his legs with hers.  Bare legs.  Just pants.  Cotton, white, and dotted with pink hearts.

“Sherl—“

“Sorry,” he apologised, not meaning it at all. “I was cold.”

“Oh…everything all right?” she drowsed, as his arms snaked around her middle. 

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

“Okay.”

She used to say that so often, especially when he hadn’t needed any confirmation from her.  A little, tiny “okay” that was comical with its feebleness. It was just another thing to remind him of his guilt, and he violently shoved that niggling feeling aside.

“You find your diaries?”  He was speaking just to wake her a little, but then realised that the discovery of those private tomes was actually important.  They would make or break him. 

“No.”  That was a relief, at least for the time being.  When he had time, he would search for them himself later.  To do what with, he was still uncertain.

There was no further elaboration.  She wasn’t in the talking mood.  He didn’t care.

“Do you want to kiss again?” he asked loudly when it felt like her breathing was evening out to slumber once more. 

“Sherlock, I’m sleep—“  He leaned forward and lightly bit the soft corner of her neck, just where it met her shoulder.  “…ing,” she sighed. 

 With a great deal more flopping and bouncing about than he felt necessary, she ended up facing him, and stared at him gravely.  Her dark eyes were large and adorable this morning—

Don’t be maudlin, Sherlock, they’re the same size every day, he told himself.

 “Sherlock.  There are two reasons why we can’t kiss just yet.”

“All right,” he said impatiently with a nod.  “Go on so I can dismiss them.”

“One—I am very sleepy.”

“I’ve been fighting crime for most of the morning, thank you!  If I’m willing to snog after all I’ve done since three, I think it’s only right you put in a small effort!”

“I’ve been up too,” she argued, perilously close to whining, “I couldn’t sleep at all until I decided to shower!”

Considering how wet her hair was, Sherlock knew that that was not too long ago.

“Okay, we’re equally tired,” he agreed.  “Next?”

“Last night, before you said, ‘None whatsoever,’—“

He really had to make her realise that her impression of him was ridiculous and ought never to be repeated. 

“—it rather sounded like you hesitated, a little?  And, well, I’d just rather not do anything that one of us might regret at the end of the day.  You never did say whether you had a girlfriend or not.  I mean, I don’t remember how to tell if you’re lying—“

“You never could, even before the incident,” he assured her, and her eyelids fluttered shut as she frowned at that.  “And no girlfriend, I assure you.” Molly visibly relaxed at that.

“Okay then.  But still, I’ve been told dozens of times you’re not to be entirely trusted. Maybe you could make sure that your conscience is clear before we go any further?”

“Oh Molly,” he sighed, pulling her closer until his nose brushed with hers.  He spoke mockingly to avoid how unpleasantly wise her suggestion actually was. “Everyone assumes I have one of those.  It’s ridiculous.  It’s like foisting an imaginary dog on somebody.”

“Sherlock Middle Name Holmes, I mean it,” she warned him, fighting a yawn.  “Take a moment and think about this before you proceed.”

To indulge her, he did, even though he felt the battle of right and wrong he had in his head just outside her door had been enough.

Past Molly—He’d call her Molly A—would have welcomed a snog, and possibly more.

This Molly—He’d call her Molly B—already welcomed a snog, and definitely indicated she’d like more.

Now, when the two joined, and became Molly AB, she’d be very angry, and then he was a dead man.  Again. 

But, he decided as he lowered his head to gently press his lips against hers, this meant the two Mollys who wanted to kiss him outnumbered the one Molly who probably didn’t, and his conscience was mathematically okay with proceeding.

She didn’t respond right away, and he felt slightly offended that she did not instantly perk up for a second round.  He pressed his lips harder, and let his hands wander again, this time sliding under her top and cupping her bottom at the same time.  Almost as a way to anchor herself, her hands flew to clasp his neck, and she eventually raised them to weave through his wet hair.  Her hips pressed against his in consequence, and she opened her lips in a gasp.  He quickly took advantage to strengthen the kiss, but just stopped himself from ravaging her mouth in consideration of her weariness.  Sherlock silently pled against her mouth to give him more, please, and she responded in her own time.  Molly rewarded his patience by letting her fingers trail down his ribs to the waist band on his pyjamas, and efficiently untied them.

Then she reached in and grasped him firmly. 

Well, he thought as he broke away and groaned, she really did trust his conscience.

“No,” she laughed softly, “keep kissing me.”

“I can’t—“

She slowly stroked him, up and down, with those small hot hands that were slightly damp from touching his hair. 

Despite what Molly’s hidden collection of romance novels said, Sherlock did not think it was possible to be so hard that it pained him.  But it was a different sort of torture she gave him as her teasing, trailing finger tips traced every rigid inch of him.  She sometimes gave the impression of being a clueless girl, but in bed she was all knowledge. 

“You’re making it very hard to concentrate.”

“I’d be offended if it wasn’t hard,” she laughed, somehow sounding husky and not ridiculous.

Molly’s amusement tinkled close to his ear, and he closed his eyes as she maintained the same, slow, tantalising pace.  Every so often, she let her thumb swipe gently over the head.

Because he felt that he might make truly mortifying noises, he turned and jerked her head closer for another kiss, this time not caring how their teeth clashed and that she bit his bottom lip.  Sherlock desperately thrust forward but she stopped altogether, cruelly running her nails lightly along his hip in admonishment. 

“Molly,” he moaned.

“You’re not touching me,” she pointed out with a pout.  It was true; at some point he just had to clench his fists full of fabric to bear the exquisite torture, so that his hands were full of the blanket and the back of Molly’s top.

Sherlock exploded into action; his hands seized any part of her to drag her closer.  He needed to press against her or he honestly thought he’d die.  Heedless of her comfort, he dragged the top off of her, ignoring her giggly “ow”, and then swooped to cover her breasts in kisses, avoiding her dusky tips in retaliation for earlier.  He pressed his hardness against her thighs to relieve some of the pressure, and felt his eyes roll to the back of his head when she parted them, welcoming him to the cotton clad heat there.

“Oh god,” she sighed, as he slowly took her nipple in, tongue laving the nub in a deliberately agonising pattern.  It might have been too intense, judging by her reaction.  She squealed and tried to pull away but he held fast.

“You all right?” he asked, looking up at her.  Molly, who had thrown her head back, nodded forward with a thoroughly disoriented expression. 

“What?  Yes.  Don’t mind me.  Keep going.”

Eyes still bound to hers, he rose slightly, breathing on the freshly wet flesh, and turned his attention to her other breast.  She had braced herself, but was surprised when he roughly bit her, provoking another, involuntary exclamation and a push of her hips against his erection. 

Impatiently, he grabbed at the elastic waistband of her underwear when her hand gripped his wrist. 

“Wait, no wait, we have to, um, Christ, I can’t breathe, hang on—“  Then she did the worst thing Sherlock had ever experienced.  She sat up and stopped the groping altogether.

“Do we have protection?”

Sherlock, who was still lying on his side, blinked dumbly at her.  “You don’t?” he asked, voice cracking in desperation. 

“I searched the entire flat after you left,” Molly admitted, still breathless.  “Either I’ve used them all up or I don’t need them—wait, no, they said I’m not on any oral or implanted contraceptive either.  Am I celibate?  Damn you Past-Molly!  Either too slaggy or not slaggy enough!”

Then she whirled to him.  “What about you?  Do you have one in your wallet?”

“What am I, sixteen?” he sputtered indignantly, ignoring the fact that even at sixteen he had had no need to carry a prophylactic in his back pocket.  Still, Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not determined.

“Stay here,” he ordered, rolling out of bed and pulling on his bottoms in one fell swoop, “I can run out and get one in less than eight minutes.  As a matter of fact?  Time me.”

“Sherlock—“

He took the turn out of the guest room too hard and slid a little into the hall way, but managed to run to her room, throw on a top, and sprint past her open door in a blur.

Biting back laughter, she stood up and leaned out just in time to see him reach for the door knob.

Then, all in one second, there was a knock, Sherlock flung the door open, and two men collided with one another.

“Christ!”  Judging by the light colour of the hair and the smaller build, Molly could see it was John, with a now-mangled bunch of flowers. 

“Oh perfect!  Vive la France!”  Sherlock was so strange.  Who expressed their anger like that?  She was beginning to think he was one of those odd, posh, boarding school blokes. 

Molly squeaked and covered herself before the smaller one could look up.  There was yelling and swearing, and she darted down to her room to properly dress in a bra and sundress before dashing to her entrance.

“John!” she said happily as the pair disentangled themselves on her welcome mat.  “How’d you get in?  I didn’t hear the buzzer.”

“Mr. Hertford let me in on his way out,” he explained as he dusted himself off.  The blonde doctor bent slightly to offer Sherlock a hand, and raised his eyebrows when the consulting detective slapped it away.  “I did text, to let you know I was on my way to check on you.  These are from Mary and me.”  John’s expression was drolly apologetic as he handed her the bunch of assorted flowers, most of which had lost their petals in the tussle.  She accepted it with an amused grin before setting them in an empty vase on the lamp table.  Normally, she would have filled it with water, but they were obviously not going to live long at any rate.

“Thank you so much!  And sorry, about missing your text I mean.  I put it on silent because I couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock had had enough of this chit chat.  “Get out,” he snarled, rising on his own.  “We’re busy.”

“Are you?  It’s nearly noon on a Saturday.  You used to crucify me for ‘waking too loudly’ on Saturdays,” John said with no small amount of disbelief. 

“Not literally,” Sherlock added to Molly.  “Unfortunately.”

Molly giggled and greeted the doctor with a brief hug.  When they parted, she thought she spotted a funny, inquisitive look on his face before resuming a harmless smile.

“So I just came to see how you’re doing?  Head all right?”

“Hmm?  Oh, yes!  I think I’m at about eighty-five percent in terms of getting my memories back—“

“That’s an arbitrary number,” Sherlock grumbled as he left them to sit at the kitchen table.  He was slightly put out that what memories she had of him only accounted for fifteen or less percent, in her opinion. 

“And I have a doctor’s appointment in a few days for another scan.  How was…sorry, I forgot—“

“It’s all right.  We went to Swindon for a week for my sister’s wedding.  It was lovely.  Dry, but lovely.”

“And Mary?”

“Home with the baby.  What, ah…what are you two up to?” 

Molly felt herself tense; John Watson sounded casual, but too casual.  With a friendly smile, she too moved to the kitchen, feeling slightly better if Sherlock was near.  As she passed her mounted microwave, Molly stopped in her tracks at the peripheral view of her reflection.

Great Scot!  That was an enormous love bite.

“Molly?  What are we up to?”  Sherlock prodded, either not noticing or not caring he had left marks of his zeal.  He trusted that she could produce a reason to get rid of the newcomer, seeing as it was her home. 

She whirled to face her guests with a conspicuous hand covering the side of her neck. 

“Make up,” she shrilled.  The men winced at her panicked volume.  “Yes, ah, we were discussing the possibility of using my make up to simulate bruising.  Or covering up bruising.  I’ve learned Sherlock’s some kind of Dick Tracy so this sort of thing could be helpful…for disguises…”  Molly trailed off weakly, and looked hopeful that John would buy it.

John looked as if he was chewing on something unpleasant, and his fists were squeezed white at his sides.  “He’s some kind of dick all right,” he agreed quietly. 

“Thank you, John, for stopping by but you’ll most likely ruin any progress Molly’s made so—“

“Sherlock?” Oh, that was a sharp, scary voice.  Molly fully believed this bloke had been in the military, as Greg had informed her.  “Can I speak with you outside a moment?”

“Why outside?” Sherlock asked insolently, lounging in the kitchen chair with crossed arms.  “We’re speaking now.”

“Because I don’t think Molly wants to clean up your blood off the floor.”

“Boys, please!  I don’t know what you’re rowing about but could we not?”  Neither of them answered.  “John?  Sorry, I hate to be rude, but can you leave?”

“Molly, you don’t know what you’re saying,” John retorted in a hard tone.  “Sherlock should’ve warned you—“

“He’s an arse, I know,” Molly assured him with a laugh.  “Yeah, we had a big lengthy discussion about his social difficulties and how he’s grateful to us for tolerating his arsey-ness while he learns to mature.”

Now Sherlock gained a terrifying look, and he directed it at Molly.  “I meant that for your ears only!  I don’t need him to know I’m grateful to him!”

Despite his wish for censorship, Molly’s words had a curious effect on the furious John Watson.  The other man looked startled and then, after some contemplation, terribly pleased. 

“Really?”

“Really,” she confirmed gleefully when Sherlock refused to answer. 

John relaxed considerably, then tried to compromise with, “Well, I still don’t feel comfortable leaving…why don’t we all go for brunch?  I could ring Mary and—“

“Oh, I’d rather be eviscerated,” Sherlock bellowed, standing to leave.  “Cut line, John!  You must know you’re not wanted, so get out!”  He delivered this lovely sentiment while marching down the hall, and punctuated his sincerity by slamming her bedroom door shut. 

Molly gave a nervous half smile to the doctor.  They stood awkwardly in the sunlight before she said, “Um…I’ll just see if he’s all right—“

“Yeah, I’ll wait here,” he agreed quickly and made himself comfortable in her sitting room.

“Oh god!” she heard the doctor shout, and Molly whirled to find John tensely standing away from the overstuffed chair, where Toby lounged on the top.  He saw her bemused expression and nodded sheepishly.  “He scared me.  I forgot he’s supposed to look like that.” he explained with a small, uncomfortable smile before choosing a seat on the sofa farthest away from her beloved animal. 

Molly nodded and finished the journey to her door and knocked.  She swallowed the silly feeling of knocking on her own door and did it again, calling softly, “Sherlock?  Are you all right?”

No answer.  After testing, she learned he had locked it.  She sighed.  This was probably what motherhood felt like, a little.  Without waiting, she jumped up slightly to snatch the key atop the door casing and made her way inside…only to find him sneaking out the window via fire escape.  At least he had dressed, wearing smart navy trousers and a white button up shirt. 

“Sherlock!” she shout-whispered, quickly shutting the door behind her.  “What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock, even in the difficult position of half-in-half-out, admirably managed to maintain his aplomb. “I have to update my markers,” he informed her loftily.  “I wasted valuable time yesterday looking for you when you ran away from the mortician murder scene.”

“You are dodging an apparently important conversation with John like a coward and you know it,” she accused in a whisper.  Molly even wagged her finger at him.  “You get in here right now or so help me—“

“Want to come?” he offered.  Sherlock’s smile was smug and knowing, looking for all the world like a tempting devil, and Molly stopped short.

They had a guest!  And the flat wasn’t tidy enough for company.  She hadn’t even offered John a refreshment.  Also, it felt incorrigible to go gallivanting about town when she was supposed to be working on regaining her memories. 

Sherlock tilted his head with a distinctive, puppy-like innocence.  She didn’t buy it for a second, but he was unbelievably handsome when he did that. 

“Yeah all right,” she agreed excitedly, and stepped closer to her window. 

“No, put some decent clothes on.”

Her face fell and she looked down at herself.  “It’s a proper dress, Sherlock.  It’s not a nightgown or anything.”

“I know, but the last thing I need is for my markers or tramps to notice you because you’re looking lovely today.  Put on something that makes you look horrible.”

How could one be so insulting and flattering at the same time? she wondered as she turned to her open closet.  “Such as?” she asked over her shoulder. 

“Literally any of your loud cardigans will do,” he advised absently as he observed the distance below.  Then Sherlock fell fully out of her window when a pillow she threw at him caught him unawares.

 

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, so much as happened! Big Fat Quiz Show made me choke, Bowie & Rickman broke my heart, and TAB nearly scared me to death! 
> 
> This chapter was not as fluffy but just as fun to write as the others simply because I enjoy breaking down characters. Though I love fics featuring always-mousey version of Molly , her blog indicated there's a bit more to her, so I decided to explore that.

* * *

 

 

“But by its earliest definition, a mermaid is a creature who is half human and half fish!” he argued, but with a wide smile.  He had never found debating so enjoyable before, mostly because he was too preoccupied with winning.  But as Sherlock was discussing the philosophical existence of mythological creatures with Molly, it didn’t seem to matter who won.

“But the evolutionary need to adapt to one’s environments would mean elongated or truncated torsos-slash-fins!  The fifty-fifty percentages would be skewed according to breed.  Ergo,” Molly said pointedly as she playfully shoved her shoulder into his, “it is more correct to say that mermaids are half mermaid and half mermaid, rather than half human and half fish.”

He sighed, and teasingly tugged at the end her pony tail as they ambled along the dodgy neighbourhood, using the gesture as way to wrap his arm around her shoulders.  For her own safety, he assured himself, as there were many pickpockets about and she was allowing herself to be distracted.  Also, somehow, her closeness made him comfortable.  He tried to tell himself it was the neurochemistry he warned her about, but still, knowing the science behind it didn’t make it any less enjoyable.  Getting high was the same, in that sense. 

But he shook off all unappealing comparisons to say, “I don’t know how I can convince you otherwise, without a specimen.”

“Then I guess a seaside holiday is in order?” Molly hinted broadly, and Sherlock could not help but grin at her subtlety.  “I’ll take that as a yes!” she laughed, but the giggles trailed off as she seemed to have noticed the unkempt surroundings.  She didn’t seem to mind before, but then again, the conversation had been distracting.

“Sherlock?  I feel like we’re being watched again.”

“Very likely; we’re surrounded by my associates.  Remember what I told you about my markers?  Look there.  If that kebab vendor on the corner continues selling past eleven on Tuesdays, that means that his wife, Mrs. Dugan, is working late to finish the laundry for the bed and breakfast we just passed.  That’s important because that means that the whores who take their clients there were reaping high profits.  Those whores’ ponce will be well seeded, and his wealth influences the rest of the vices in the area.  Understand?”

In the second she didn’t answer, Sherlock feared that she didn’t, and he’d have to break it down without insulting her.  But Molly, whose eyes wandered from the vendor, to the smoking prostitutes, to the bitter tramps, to the chavs in tracksuits, and so on, took a brief moment to laugh a little, and then looked up at him. 

“You’re brilliant,” she said ebulliently.

Sherlock returned the beaming smile with one that was equally happy.  Then he cleared his throat—his homeless network was observing him after all—and placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her further down the street.  Today she wore a yellow polo short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and white Keds, saying it was as unnoticeable as she could manage.  “That’s one of the few things my associates report to me.  But most lack the gift to discern the why behind the what, and so periodically I have to see for myself the reasons behind the gradual changes.  People move flat, divorce, adopts new pets.  Each must be catalogued and analysed.”

“It must be tremendous, keeping track of all of that information?” Molly wondered. 

He shrugged, unable to keep himself from preening just a little at her obvious admiration.  It hearkened to the past days, when her adulation was expected and free-flowing.  “It would be, for the average man.  And I admit, I have to delete certain items from my memory to maintain adequate storage space.”

Molly laughed, and elbowed him slightly.  “We’re not robots, Sherlock.”

“Arguable.  There’s a method of cerebral storage similar to the hard drive of a—“

“All right, all right, Mr. Boffin, skip the lesson, if you please.  And you’re talking to somebody with a damaged hard drive—speaking of which?  I’d really like to get on my laptop.  I don’t like typing on my mobile.  You said you could sort it out…Sherlock, pay attention.”

The man had the nerve to start texting while she spoke, but he only looked up and smiled.  The phone in her pocket vibrated. 

“I am, ma’am,” he replied knowingly.  “I narrowed it down to three possibilities, which I just sent to you.  Three is convenient as it will lock you out after four tries.  Of course, we could always try to hack it, but that might result in damage to your security—“

This time Molly laid her palm on his lips to stop the onslaught of jumbled information.  “Thank you,” was all she said, before tiptoeing to kiss him chastely. 

“No worries—“ He paused, and, without losing his indulgent, casual smile, Sherlock darted his eyes over her left shoulder.  “Oh, there’s the man we’ve been hunting.  Don’t look.”

Molly felt slightly ashamed that she was ready to turn to spy the quarry.  She decided she’d blame the head injury for her failure to know the basics of these cloak-and-dagger routines.

“What did he do?”  The intrigue and excitement made her heart beat little bit faster.  Her partner, on the other hand, seemed slightly bored by the newcomer. 

“Fed me wrong information just for the coin.  They know I give extra if they tell me something interesting.  That one made the mistake of making something up.  No, Molly, don’t look, he’s coming this way.  Hasn’t yet seen us.”

“Don’t punish him; he just needed the money, Sherlock, please.”

“You don’t even know him!  He spent the money on a palm reading!”

But Molly wasn’t listening.  She had noticed her mobile was vibrating, and felt a little hypocritical checking it in the middle of her conversation with Sherlock.  “Oh, it’s John.”

“Don’t read it,” he advised, eyes still surreptitiously darting over her shoulder every few seconds.  “He’s been calling me all sorts of names via text messages for hours.”

“You’re embellishing.  It took him thirty minutes to find out we weren’t home.  And he hasn’t called me any names,” Molly said proudly as she unlocked the screen.  “Most likely because he knows you’re a bad influen—Oh no!”  Without another word, she rushed to the corner and raised her hand urgently.  “He says that Toby’s fallen ill.”

Sherlock frowned.  Either John had tried to wait them out or he had returned to Molly’s flat in hopes of catching them unexpectedly.  The barnacle. 

“How can he tell?” he cheeked, and this time the elbow she jabbed into his ribs was decidedly harder. 

“He said he must have eaten some of the flowers he gave.  Oh, you were right—Sherlock, do your magic taxi-summoning thing, please!”

“It’s not sorcery,” he told her, resentfully rubbing his injured rib.  “I’m just taller, and therefore more noticeable.”  Sherlock barely drew out his arm when a taxi cab pulled up immediately and Molly swiftly entered it, lowering the window so she could still speak to him.  The action drew the deceptive tramp’s attention, and he began to walk fast in the opposite direction.

“Sherlock, he’s getting away,” she said urgently.  “Go on and get him.  I can go home on my own.”

Sherlock was genuinely torn, and strained his neck to follow the man’s movement through the flow of pedestrians.  He had been searching for him for weeks.  At Molly’s continued encouragement, he handed the driver a wad of money he had fished from his pocket, and then ducked to kiss her quickly.

“It will be fine; he does this all the time.  You have medicine somewhere to make him vomit.  I’ll see you later.”  Before she could reply, he took off, and Molly twisted in her seat to watch him spring easily down the pavement, dodging passersby and obstacles with fluidity and grace.  There was no doubt in her mind that his pursuit would be successful, and his efficient confidence in Toby’s health vastly relieved her.

 “Miss, please sit properly,” the driver asked politely, and she nodded as she faced forward again.

She still didn’t feel quite right, but it felt like a massive weight off her shoulders to be with someone so confident and knowledgeable.  Whatever she didn’t remember, he would be sure to tell her, and if he didn’t know, he would be sure to find out for her.  Aside from the severe lack of sleep, Molly thought that this was one of the most enjoyable days of her life.  Starting off with a session of heavy petting, and then a daring escape out the window, followed by meandering around the sunny-rainy-cloudy day on the seedier side of London with a handsome fellow who shared his usually private doings with her in detail.  They had also spoken of sillier things, like mythology and politics, and she had the feeling that was something he also did not do very often with others.  Tonight, she would learn more memories, and maybe even prepare a meal to reheat for him when he returned.  She hoped she had culinary knowledge in her muscle memory.

The only fly in the ointment was that some of the memories only felt like familiar stories, and did not sink into her mind like a real memory ought.  Some were instantly absorbed with a feeling akin to intense déjà vu.  Others she kept close, for they sounded right, but, for whatever reason, felt mentally separate from her. 

Well, she did not have time to dwell on it; the taxi stopped before her building, and Molly thanked the woman before alighting to the pavement and darting up to her flat.  Thanks to the odd incident the day prior, she remembered to lock the door thoroughly behind her before she ran to see to her animal, who still lay on the overstuffed chair.

“Toby, love?  How are you?” 

She knew that the others would mock her for it, but Molly honestly believed that the cat frowned pitifully at her.  He even meowed sadly.  She stroked his whiskers gently before observing the new sick stains on the fabric of the chair.  John had gone, but he had done his best to prevent further misfortune—the vase of damaged flowers were now on top of her fridge, and there was fabric cleaner, which he apparently used several times before leaving.  John had written on her notepad and left it literally on top of Toby’s belly.

_He’s vomited nothing but liquid, so I think the petals are still in there.  Best of luck.  -John_

She ran to the guest room closet, and tip toed to grab as many of the “Toby’s Medicines” boxes from the shelf as she could.  In her haste, she managed to knock one pile over, and the lids fell off as they toppled.  “Oh!” she said distractedly as she surveyed the contents now spilled onto the floor.  “My diaries!”

Of course she had hidden them in those boxes, given Sherlock’s determined apathy toward her pet!

A thin meow called from the other side of the flat, and she remembered her mission.  She opened the first box and quickly read the labels on the containers; there were painkillers, indigestion pills, and antibiotics.  After moving onto the second package, she found a small glass brown bottle with a label written in her hand “3% H2O2 solution.”  The sight of it jolted something within her mind, and she immediately searched for the necessary syringe for it.  Toby had definitely done this before, Molly remembered, just as Sherlock said.  The last time she had used five cc’s because he had been around ten pounds, but Toby was a bit heavier now, and so she did not mind filling a little above the 5 line on the syringe.

“Oh you silly bear,” she sighed when she returned, and it seemed that Toby fully expected what was to come, opening his oddly hinged mouth welcomingly.  She administered the diluted hydrogen peroxide by promptly squirting it into his waiting maw, and then carried him to a corner of the kitchen, where it would be easier to clean up the ensuing sick off of the hard floor.  For a few minutes, she forced him to walk a little before letting him lie down tiredly, as movement allowed for it to be absorbed faster.

Naturally, she would sit by her favourite creature until she knew he was better, but Molly did not plan on letting that time go to waste.  She picked up her laptop from her vanity and set it on the kitchen table.  Then she went to the guest room and read the spines of the fallen diaries.  Once she started med school, her time and opportunity for journal-keeping had diminished greatly. 

Molly decided to browse the ones labeled 2009-2011, and another labeled 2011-.  She petted Toby comfortingly before settling in a kitchen chair.  Of the three passwords Sherlock sent her, the third was the one that unlocked the laptop. 

That blog first.  Sherlock said it was only a few entries, so it would be a faster read.  Molly opened her browser and looked through her bookmarked sites, easily finding the link to the now defunct web page. 

“In my day, we called these web logs, and we liked it,” Molly said, taking on a crotchety old man’s voice.  Toby didn’t laugh, and began making disgusting noises, which she knew to be routine.

Past-Molly had agreed to let the browser remember her blog password, which saved her the time of trying out the variations. 

_It’s nice to have somewhere to share my feelings._

Molly blinked at that, and sat up to look questioningly at her pet, who did not have answers and was busy hocking up disgusting things in his corner.  She had friends, didn’t she?  And family.  She didn’t need a blog to share feelings, did she?

Well, everyone had gotten a bit busier, she guessed.  Meena had two kids now.  Julie had four kids (and counting!) As Molly ran down the list of the mates she remembered, she realised that Facebook said they were mostly married.  Understandable, she guessed, to have an online outlet.

_Do you believe in love at first sight?  There’s this man and I love him._

Molly felt her heart seize.  She wrote those words?  Her eyes flew to the date.  It said 2010.  Just a few years ago, she had fallen in love with some man on sight.  He must have made quite an impression.

_I'm a sensible girl, I always have been. I've worked hard to get the job I have and I've got plans but he just rides all over everything. It's like I'm Molly Hooper, in control. 'Little Miss Perfect' as my mates call me._

Molly smiled a little, for at least that felt familiar.  Toby was done getting ill on the kitchen floor.  She tilted her head to look at the mess and thought, if she could have put it on a canvas, it would have sold well as modern art. 

_Until he walks into the room and then suddenly I'm this little mouse. He turns me into a mouse._

Her smile faded.  Perhaps…perhaps it was an endearing thing.  Although Molly could not conceive a way that becoming a proverbial mouse because of a man was good.  The man sounded intimidating, and according to her, he was _so intelligent it’s like he’s burning._

It couldn’t be anybody except for Sherlock Holmes. With a shaky hand, she lightly dragged her finger on the touchpad to move onto the next entry. 

 _…I still don’t understand him.  One minute he's noticing the tiniest thing about me and the next it's like I'm not here_. 

It’s not that hard to understand, she wanted berate Molly of January 29.  He notices you when you’re useful and doesn’t when you’re not. 

It was brief, but it was her comment that broke her heart.  It was really starting to look pathetic, she realised as tears threatened to sting her eyes.

_Is it wrong that I let him talk to me the way he does?  I'm not like it with other men. Just him._

It couldn’t be Sherlock.  She stood up to Sherlock.  And he respected her, she could see it in his eyes when she managed to land a barb or make a good argument. 

“How does he talk to you?” Molly asked the screen uselessly, growing frustrated with her past brevity.  “Why would you let him?”

Then in March, there began a promising interlude.  Molly seemed to be aware of Sherlock’s manipulative ways and even began an online flirtation with a coworker.  Her mind could not summon a face for this Jim, but he seemed nice.

Until she saw the entry at the end of the month.  “Oh lord, Molly, you are such a rube!” she moaned, covering her eyes but still peeking through her fingers.  The bloke was either gay or just very desperate to give her one; either way, the matching enthusiasm he had for her cat and that musical TV show read very mockingly now that she saw it with a fresh pair of eyes.  Christ.

But it ended.  It seemed to have ended badly.  The last entry made her teeth ache.  Her words rang so falsely, so painfully plastic, but of course she ended that way.  It was what she did, force herself through with a smile.  Her dad died and she took all the proper steps to cope for her family.  Her family moved out of the country and she reconnected with old school friends.  Her friends got married and she got a cat to coddle.  

_Nobody wants an unhappy person working in a morgue. Not that they want a particularly happy one either._

Molly laughed bitterly as she slowly snapped the laptop shut, and was embarrassed.  She had been mad on him for ages with no hope of requital…no hope of anything good in any facet, actually. This might have been why Sherlock hadn’t told her about her present life; his incurable honesty couldn’t have managed to paint her sad existence in a positive light.  She was barely aware how one hand reached for the mobile.  Then she managed to stop herself from ringing Sherlock. 

No.  No.  Those were just a few entries on an outdated blog.  There had to be a bigger picture.  She wouldn’t want Sherlock to judge her on just a few lines thrown onto the internet, and she would give him the benefit of the doubt until she learned more.  She still had her diaries, after all. 

Opening the first book—with an adorable cover decorated with kittens, lace, and roses—Molly braced herself for good news. 

And for some those years, there were definitely positive aspects.  Molly drew genuine joy from working her way up at St. Bart’s, as well as her sister’s growing family half way across the world.  She was thrilled when Meena filed for divorce, but of course did not say so.  She was happy when Caroline from work went elsewhere with all her talk about her flipping hedges.  But then these recordings took on a hopeless tinge to it half way through the book.

She met Sherlock, and Molly had described him in every detail.  Literally, from how he smelled sometimes of tobacco, to the calluses on his fingers (violin playing, she added in the margin), all Holmesian minutiae was captured in her lovesick pages.  In non-Sherlock news:  she didn’t have time to research for her papers, because of the odd times she was called to the lab.  She missed deadlines for submission at this journal, and that newsletter.  There had been an interview at University College Hospital, but she had been “too heartbroken” to go. 

“Oh Molly,” she sighed.  Somewhere along the way, she lost sight of her goals, and maybe her mind.  Honestly, she forgot how to spell “lovelier”? 

Granted, the cases she recorded became more interesting once Sherlock entered her life.  And, as her eyes skimmed the pages pertaining to a “death” and her enjoyment of the thrill, Molly knew that he could not be counted as a wholly negative new character.  That Jim person turned out to be the most horrible person she could have ever dated.  Not that she dwelt on him, or any other man for that matter, for very long.  Poor Tom. 

It seemed that the person most at fault for these troubles was herself; she knew how he was.  She knew how he flirted meaninglessly.  It was she who carried a hopeless torch, despite all the discouraging signs.  It was she who continued to pine embarrassingly.

Molly moved onto the next volume, and skimmed the pages very quickly.  Life was certainly adventurous, but still, melancholy seemed to shade every word. 

Sherlock had been banished, like a damn Shakespearean hero, for a crime unnamed.  She slowed down to read what occurred in the last grand escapade.  Unknown plotters had used Jim’s face to cook up a scheme treacherous enough to re-earn Sherlock’s citizenship once he unraveled it, and saved millions of Londoners’ lives in the process.  Jim, whoever he was, was still presumed dead.

As exhilarating as that had been, it wasn’t the focal point of her entry.  This one seemed more excruciating than the rest, but Molly could not tear her eyes away, as it seemed to be the most frank.

_He hadn’t said goodbye.  He was going to leave the country forever, and he hadn’t even said goodbye.  I thought I counted._

_I’ve got to stop this.  I know what I’m doing, why I’m dating men I shouldn’t, why I’m trying to spin straw into gold.  Do you know, my last paper to the BMJ was just barely accepted?  I had to resubmit it twice, and even then I’ve received so much feedback about the faults in the experiments.  Even one from him!_

_It’s him, in the end.  God, he can identify a body by her tits but he can’t see what a bloody fucking catch I am.  So many blokes can’t believe I’m single—career, sense of humour, looks, decent arse, and a strong will to never have children.  I am every straight single London man’s wet dream.  But I’m not good enough for him._

_I’m brilliant.  I know that.  But he’s better.  And I should just stop reaching for the stars, I think, before I die trying._

_I won’t say that I’ll stop loving him.  (Mum says that I can’t love him, because I don’t know him, not in the way you should, to say that you love somebody.  She says that I’m just infatuated.  She says I’m a fan.  But I swear I can see him in ways that other people don’t.  He can’t keep his guard up all the time, and I see past it, and I know he’s good.  I know he’s good.)_

_I think I’m just going to have to learn how to live with the pain, like in the movies.  Like Bridges of Madison County!  Oh, except they at least made love.  I don’t even have that.  I have apologies, and kisses on the cheek, and mocking glances that are kind because at least they wait until they think I can’t see.  He used to roll his eyes right in front of me._

_Sorry about that splotch.  I’m crying.  It’s very silly.  Margaret Emmaline Hooper, the silliest girl you’ll ever meet.  How can you weep over a relationship that never was?_

Molly was biting her lip to stop its trembling, and she turned the page.

_Meena approves.  She says that true love should help your progress to be the best version of yourself.  And Sherlock wouldn’t have done that for me.  In fact, she said he brought out the worst—a spineless, meek, scatterbrained, nervous Molly (tough love, but that’s Meena for you).  I guess I can’t argue with that._

_I’ll try not to help him as much with his experiments, but it’s hard when you’ve nothing on and sometimes spending time with him is the only opportunity to feel wanted._

That was not too long ago.  The more recent entries included descriptions of helping him with experiments because she had predictably caved.

 Molly mechanically rose, partly because Toby’s mess ought to be cleaned up, and partly because she needed to get away from her blog and her diaries.  She sniffled slightly as she disinfected the floor, but honestly, she couldn’t tell how she felt.  A part of her was shouting that it was time to kick a certain consulting detective in the balls, but what would that solve?

Apparently, pre-amnesia Molly would have walked barefoot on broken glass for the romantic interest Sherlock was showing now.  And she might have classified his interest as purely physical until this afternoon, when they spent a few hours chatting, observing, and laughing together with just a few simple kisses and light touches. 

The real her loved him, and was willing to live with that unrequited love for the rest of her life.  The current her fancied him, and definitely felt an undefinable current between them, but was well aware of the importance of mutual respect.  So where did that leave her?

She was staring at the fairy liquid by the taps for who knows how long, running these tumultuous questions through her head, when the shrill tone of Sherlock ringing her rented through the still air.  For a split second, Molly considered ignoring it, but knew that doing so would simply delay the inevitable.

“Sherlock, I—“

“What do you want to do for supper?” he began without preamble.

Just the sound of that rich, happy voice threw her into total chaos.  Oh god, she felt as if there had never been a more immense schism than the current one between her head and her heart.  She had a physical reaction to him, but her mind immediately spiked with pain.  He knew, he must have known, that she, Molly-of-right-now, would have deplored the way he had treated her in the past.  Even if her pre-amnesia-self had been okay with it, there was no way in hell could she let it continue now.

Molly was convinced that almost every adult had that idle thought, when things were going very well or very poorly, of wondering, “What would young me think of myself now?”

And she was one of the lucky ones who actually got to find out first hand.  The microscope incident, as dangerous as it was, was probably the best thing that had ever happened to her.  It reminded her that she had standards, and was a good person who deserved somebody equally good.  Also, it made her forget her irrational, unshakeable love for Sherlock Holmes.  Maybe the universe planned it this way.  Maybe it knew that the only way she could be happy was to leave a little piece of herself behind.

Another piece of her waited before speaking, cherishing this small, short-lived moment before she spoke.  In this moment, Sherlock still wanted her, Molly Hooper.  In this moment at the edge of an irreversible precipice, before she said anything and he quickly observed something was wrong, they were happy.

But she had to speak.  If she didn’t speak, it would be cowardly, and she wasn’t cowardly any more.

“I’m—“ The one word sounded rough, and she cleared her throat.  “I’m not hungry.”

There was a pause.  “What’s wrong?  What are you doing?”

“I’ve just been reading,” she mumbled listlessly and Sherlock heaved a static-filled sigh. 

“I suppose you found your diaries.”

“And I read my blog,” she confirmed quietly. 

The silence dragged on, and Molly could hear the faded sounds of traffic in the background.  “So what would you like me to say?”

It must have been his dangerous past, she guessed, that allowed him to remain so calm and collected in otherwise stressful situations.

“Does it matter?” she asked intently, sitting down on the floor, as the chair at the small table seemed too far away.  “How would I even know you were being truthful?”

“Very astute of you, Molly.”

“Don’t be condescending, Sherlock.” 

“When you dwell upon it, ‘truthful’ is somewhat subjective.  I assume that you are thinking of the repeated times you asked if there was any reason that would prevent us engaging in physical activities—“

“Sherlock,” she sighed, the growing manic quality of his words cracking her stoicism.  But he pressed on heedlessly.

“What you think to be a valid reason would be very different from my definition of a valid reason, so you cannot hold that against me,” Sherlock finished in one breath.  In a more sincere, earnest voice, he said, “Please do not hold that against me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she began to cry softly.  Molly leaned too hard against the cabinet beneath her kitchen sink, and was grateful for the brief flash of pain in her spine.  “What am I supposed to say?  I’m breaking up with you?  We only just kissed last night, and nearly had sex this morning.  It’s nothing worth saving, Sherlock.  We had nothing.”

“But it could have been…I don’t know what,” he admitted, sounding brusque.  “Something good.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” she agreed thickly, bitterness coating every word.  “It could have been good, a long time ago.  But you were too busy using me, weren’t you?  Wasted a few years doing that, good on you.”

“Molly…”

“Was I a joke?  You must have laughed so much at me behind my back.”

“I didn’t, Molly.  I didn’t.”  This new timbre of sympathy and rue was odd coming from him, and he didn’t sound terribly comfortable displaying such vulnerability.

“Why?  Because you couldn’t spare the time.  I wasn’t that important back then.  Not terribly interesting.”

“Molly, you were—“

Every taut feeling within her suddenly snapped at that sweet, soothing tone.  Although she knew he was sincere, all his attempts to calm the situation felt cloying and especially cruel. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Sherlock!” she advised him savagely.  “Not now!  Do you have any scruples at all?  Because if you do, for fuck’s sake Sherlock, try to feel a modicum of shame in deceiving me.  Now, want to try again?  I wasn’t important to you back then, Sherlock, and that’s why you didn’t have time to laugh at me, yeah?”

There were no sounds for so long that she thought he might have rang off.  But finally he confessed slowly, “In the first few years, I did not think of you, Molly, unless you were in my presence and could offer some use, yes.”

Molly clenched her eyes tight against the hurt these words stabbed through her gut.  It was one thing to read her own words that described the truth; it was quite another to hear it confirmed in a voice she once enjoyed so much.  “So what changed?” she pushed masochistically, hoping to sound disdainful even through the obvious tears.  “Why are you trying to shag me now?  Oh, I know—it’s because I forgot myself, and that personality I had before was so bloody pathetic, right?”

“Yes!  I mean—no!  I’ll admit, there are parts of you that I haven’t seen until now—“

“So all I had to do was flash my tits you previously thought too small and you’d have come running?”

He ignored her immature taunt. “I do find you more interesting now but it’s hardly my fault!  You weren’t yourself, not when I was around—“

“You made me nervous!”

“I make everyone nervous, Molly, but they don’t blame me for their being a coward!”

She gasped, wondering at the sheer audacity of the man who would dare mistreat her this way, and then literally add insult to injury (even if he was a tiny bit right).  “Fuck off, Sherlock,” she snarled.

“Look, I didn’t mean that,” he contradicted himself instantly.  “I just meant…Molly!  I treat everybody the same way!  With the same amount of disdain and cynicism.  The ones who don’t tolerate it leave.  The ones who do let me know when I’ve crossed a boundary.  You—“

“I what, Sherlock?  I asked for it?  You were horrifically dismissive of me, of my feelings, because I didn’t stop you?”

“How am I to assume you minded when you never said anything?”

“Of course I minded!  Even you, with your total lack of social skills, ought to deduce that any person would mind being emotionally trampled over by the person they love!”

“I only meant that you couldn’t have minded that much if you never told me off for it!  And, now that I know that you did mind my words that much, then all I can say is that it wasn’t my fault that you were too scared to speak up!”

She inhaled deeply so that she could shout again when she sighed, and let her head slump forward in exhaustion.  When Molly spoke, her voice was weighed heavily with years’ worth of sadness.  “You’re right.  I was scared.  And that’s why I let you talk to me the way you apparently did, and that’s why I let you use me.  I think my life had become stagnant, and you were exciting, and I wanted to keep that excitement around, even if that meant swallowing my pride now and then.

But you could have come to know me, Sherlock.  Everyone else was worth a second look—everyone but me.  I helped you more than any one and you didn’t care.  You never cared.”

The drop in her acrimony propelled him to fear, as indicated by the way desperation tainted his next words.

“Molly, that’s not true.  It’s not.  I regret that I hadn’t prioritised you higher, yes, but please don’t say I never cared.”  When she said nothing for a worryingly long time, he mumbled, “The book says we shouldn’t speak in absolutes.”

“What?”

“John and Mary had a book, to help them with some domestic trouble.  I found it behind the cradle, when I was looking for…any way, it said that the use of ‘always’ and ‘never’ should always be avoided, as it never ends well.”

“Huh,” Molly emitted thoughtlessly.  She was staring up at her ceiling, trying to gather herself.  Getting as livid as she had just now was not common for her.  The sheer intensity rapidly burnt up, and left her feeling somewhat lightheaded.  “Clever, that.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock cleared his throat.  “I know you don’t remember,” he tried again haltingly.  “But you were yourself with me, sometimes…such as when you thought you were going to marry that idiot.  You were comfortable then, and would sometimes joke a bit.  And you did stand up to me once or twice.  When I was really terrible, you’d say so, and once you even slapped me.”

Molly smiled faintly, really wishing she could remember that.

He was still speaking slowly and thoughtfully, as if the wrong word would detonate the Molly-bomb.  “So I know that you are capable of it.  Which made me assume that, if there was anything I did you disliked, you would tell me.  But perhaps…perhaps after you were single again, you fell back into the habit of just going along with my wishes, whether or not they coincided with your wishes.”

“And, after I broke up with Tom, and all that happened, did you even bother to ask what my wishes were?”

“I don’t believe I did, Molly.  And that’s a pity, because, from what I’ve learned of you in the past few days…I know now that your thoughts are worth hearing.”

Molly sniffled and laughed a little when Toby, sensing her sadness, wandered over to rub himself against her feet.  “You could have found that out a long time ago, you know,” she told Sherlock steadily.  “There’s an entry here, one that says I asked you out for coffee, and you thought that I was offering to fetch you a cup.  But you’re smart, Sherlock, you’re so smart.”  Molly shook her head slowly.  “You knew what I meant, didn’t you?”

Again, his lack of a proper response let the conversation lapse uncomfortably.  But it didn’t bother her as much as it did him, so Molly let the quiet grow between them before she answered for him.

“You did.  And you knew how guilty I must have felt about this Jim fiasco, but you had to rub that in, right?  I date a psychopath who ended up murdering people, possibly because of my help, and you flaunt it so I can assist you with experiments.  What kind of man does that?”

“Not to be insensitive, but ‘ _Jim’_?  I’d rather not to speak of him.”  He didn’t explore why, but he felt a renewed savagery toward the late madman.  And it rankled him to hear her say Moriarity’s name so casually in one breath, and then deride the kind of man Sherlock was in the next.

The unexpected hardness in his tone spurred Molly to become equally vicious.  “Do you know what’s the worst part?”

“I suppose you’ll tell me whether I like it or not,” he sneered. 

“Supposing you were aware of and felt bad for how you ridiculed me in the past…what’s the first thing you do when my memory’s gone and you have a proverbial clean slate? You go and make a fool of me again.  Just in a different way.”  He could not deny it, and she suddenly felt oh so tired; she could melt into nothingness and it would have been okay by her.  “God, how could I ever waste myself on the likes of you?  How the bloody hell could I be so daft?” 

She wasn’t saying it to be cruel.  In truth, Molly was just thinking out loud, offering a stream of consciousness that twisted at Sherlock from inside out.  This was the descent from the high; that sweet, hissing voice that tempted him had vanished, leaving cacophonous cries in his mind that said, “You shouldn’t have done it, it wasn’t worth it, look what you’ve done!”  He always, always forgot about this tortuous part. 

He didn’t acknowledge her harsh, rhetorical questions.  Instead, neutrally, he said, “I’m coming over.”

Molly sat up straighter.  She knew how detrimental the effect of his presence would be on her resolve.  “Don’t you dare.”

“Why wouldn’t I come over in the midst of such a vital conversation?”

“Because I’m declaring the conversation finished.  You don’t get a say in it.  You need to learn there are consequences to your selfish, reckless Sherlocking.”

“But…I’m staying with you, aren’t I?”  Molly nearly snorted; it was clear that his appeal to her sensibilities as a hostess was his last resort. 

“Needless to say, you’ve worn out your welcome,” she said calmly and firmly.  “Stay with John, now that he’s back.”

He had no good reason against that, so he tried another tactic.  “Molly, you think you are speaking with a clear mind but we both know these words are from pure reaction.  In the time it will take me to come home, you’ll have calmed down, I hope, and—“

“Sherlock, I know you’ve little experience with women, but a word of advice for dealing with your future females?  Don’t imply that she ever needs to ‘calm down.’”

“I don’t plan on having any ‘future fem—‘”  He cut himself short, and although the words thrilled her a little, Molly was mostly relieved that he had caught himself.  Instead, Sherlock said, “Fine!  Give me all the acceptable ways to talk to a woman when I come over.”

“When do you expect to be here?”

“Twenty minutes, give or take.”

“Fine,” she agreed and ended the call without warning.  Then, feeling peculiarly serene, Molly stood to pack Sherlock’s things.  When that was done, she sat the luggage at the door, with a note taped onto it, asking for him to text her when he cleared off.  She planned to wait it out at Meena’s, but did not say so, knowing he would just hound her there as well.

 She rang her as she checked everything around the flat.  Just because her romantic life was in shambles was no reason to rudely drop in on her friend without proper etiquette.

“Hello Molly!  How are you feeling?”

Rotten.  Gullible.  Idiotic.  “A little run down, I’m afraid,” Molly confessed with a forced smile.  “I’ve had a bit of a day.”

But Meena had known her for years, and could sense something was off.  “Have you been crying?” 

She swallowed the lump in her throat.  “Only a little—and no worries, they were angry tears!  I’ve just told Sherlock off—“

“Bravo!  What did he do?  Experimented on your toothbrush again?”

“No,” Molly denied, though she did look uneasily at the loo.  “Can I just pop over and stay for a bit?  I know it’s Friday, and I wouldn’t want to intrude but…I’ve packed all his things but I don’t want to be here when he comes.”

“Oh, I really hope you stay this ace when you’re fully Molly again,” Meena said wistfully.  “And yeah, go ahead.  We left early because Harry has the boys this weekend so we can have a nice girls night in.” 

“I’m not sure if I want to talk about it—“

There was a knock on the door.  Molly sighed.  She knew that Sherlock had a key, but perhaps he was taking a gentle approach because of their row.

“Bugger,” she groused quietly.  “He’s here.  He must have lied about how long it would take him just to catch me.”

“Don’t meet with him!” Meena warned, “You’ll roll over.  Um…escape out the window!”

Molly couldn’t help but snort at this coincidental piece of advice as she headed to her front door.  “No, no, I’ve got to talk to him, at least a little.  If I can get him out of here early enough, I’ll still stop by, okay?”

“Okay, just text me.  In fact, text me either way.  But stay strong, Molls!” 

She promised to do so and ended the call before she unlocked the door.  There stood a man in a smart black suit.  He was not much taller than her, and was very pale, but managed to avoid looking sickly by the excited, animated look in his dark eyes.

“Molly Hooper, I presume.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Sherlock arrived, he found Toby glaring at him and a curt note on his packed luggage.  Well.  She had been efficient in the short time since she ended the call.  With a thunderous expression, he grabbed his case and stormed out, its wheels causing a tremendous ruckus in the stair well.  He petulantly hoped the neighbors below her flat heard it.

There were only so many places she could go, and he knew that he could easily find her within an hour.  But what he told Molly also held true for himself; they were both “shooting from the hip,” as it were, and Sherlock knew he needed to retreat to formulate a strategy for attack.

Not that he wanted to defeat Molly. No, he liked working with her, as an ally.  But, quite rightly, she viewed him as an enemy, and he needed to figure out how to disarm her so they could continue on the same side. Speaking of disarmament…Sherlock just landed on the pavement when he realised he left his gun in Molly’s nightstand.  Mycroft and John would flay him for being so careless with a firearm, but he’d blame his negligence on this horrible trap called Romance.  A taxi had just pulled up to the curb just as Sherlock turned back to the door.  He hadn’t even raised his hand; they just gravitated to him like pesky moths.

The consulting detective shook his head at the driver and ascended to Molly’s flat just as noisily.  He left his items by the entry way, and quickly strode to Molly’s room.  Upon passing the open loo door, however, he paused, and took a step back to see the nearly empty dish of food and the low level of water in the matching bowl.

“So I’m supposed to feed him again, even though you shouted at me?” Sherlock asked the absent woman sulkily.

Actually, yes, that would probably help your situation a little, Common Sense responded smartly.  With a put upon sigh and a roll of his eyes, he replenished both for the ugly mongrel before continuing to her room.

“Ugh, it still smells like you,” he grumbled resentfully as he stepped onto the bed to reach the nightstand drawer, childishly enjoying the fact that Molly would have hated that he did so with his shoes on.  Then he swung his legs over and sat on the bed to reach under it, where he kept the case.  As he stored the Sig Sauer, Sherlock flickered his gaze around the room by habit.  It was odd to think that, in that closet last night, she had tried to hide her admiration for his body while looking for some helpful literature that would soothe his wounded feelings.  His blue eyes darted to the other side.  It felt equally strange that, just a few hours ago, he and Molly had darted out of that window.  He helped her every step of the way down, noting but not commenting on how her feet shook.  Perhaps she was afraid of heights; it was something else Sherlock didn’t know about her.  Or then again, he might have observed it during one of the times she assisted him, but deleted it because it hadn’t been important at the time.

Although the gun was safely stored away, Sherlock remained seated.  Despite his argumentative words earlier, Sherlock knew he had no defense here.  He had been dismissive, and rude, and manipulative. 

But I wouldn’t have been, his mind said in a self-justifying way, if I had known how enjoyable her company is.

But she hid how enjoyable her company is, he shot back, because of how dismissive, and rude, and manipulative you were.

It was a Mobius strip of arguments, and he couldn’t deny that he behaved a bit not good in the last two days.  Molly had heatedly implied an option that he had initially believed to be the most improbable, when she said he had had a clean slate, and proceeded to botch things once more. 

He could have been truthful from the start.  Said he was a horrific friend who often took advantage, and she’d most likely not want to snog him.  It would have resulted in initial denial of pleasurable activities, but, eventually, it would have done him a service once she fully recovered and saw how nobly he behaved.  The long con, as criminals called it.  He should have invested for the long con, but he had underestimated Molly’s forgiving nature when he thought its success the least likely.  

He felt a little uncertain to his next step, and so took the next logical action. 

Mind Palace.

His place for her had been in the setting of a morgue, for that was formerly the only location in which she was useful.  But she wasn’t looking very professional, sitting on the stool before the microscopes, dressed in her white vest top and fluffy pink pyjama bottoms.  Her hair was wet and drying in uneven curls on her shoulders.  She was looking down at her feet.  When he stepped closer, she looked up.  Molly’s cheeks were wet from recent weeping.

Without hesitation, he reached out and cradled her face with both his hands. 

“What should I say?” she asked softly.  “I don’t know what I’d say in this situation.”

Normally, Mind Palace Molly would know exactly what to say, but he had to take a few seconds to redraw her.  Normally, being wrong about somebody bothered him, but he had looked forward to investigating her mind, and reconstructing his idea of her.  Normally, he wouldn’t have come to his Mind Palace looking for a solution, only to comfort a conundrum instead.

Slowly, his thumbs wiped the salty wetness back, and she closed her eyes, focusing on his gentle touch.  Sherlock mentally added what he now knew of his favourite pathologist to the being in his mind, and hoped for the best.

“I just need advice,” Sherlock requested somberly.  “I need to know what to do next.”

“Let’s look at this logically,” she tried with an amused smile, and a wrinkle of her nose.  The tears were gone now, and she leaned into his touch.  “Name your objective, and determine the necessary steps to reach your goal.”

His goal?

To be with her.

No, that was too vague.  If he offered that, she would demand more details.  In what capacity?  Exclusively? For how long?

Molly cocked her head to the side with narrowed eyes and a grin, as if she could see the whirring of his mind at work.  Which, logically, she could.  “You want me to have long conversations about trivial and important subjects with you, as we had this afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“As well as for physical satisfaction.”

“ _Yes_.”  If possible, Sherlock felt himself redden a little at how keen that sounded.  Molly raised an eyebrow but did not torment him for it. 

“You’d rather not share.”

“No,” he confirmed strongly, thinking back to how quickly his hackles were raised when she spoke with Marcus the policeman.  This greed was not exclusive to her, he had to admit.  He wanted John, Mary, Lestrade, and even Mycroft to be available whenever he needed them, but their vexing habit of autonomy sometimes conflicted with his wishes.  “I never do.”

“Nor would you want to be shared.”

“ _No_ ,” he agreed wholeheartedly.  This desire to be with Molly was inconvenient enough; why on earth would he choose to be burdened even further with another partner?

“Wrong choice of words there, Sherlock.  Never let me know you think of this irresistible pull towards being with me as a ‘burden,’” she warned him playfully.  “Now.  For how long?  Shall we say a month?”  She sounded like a secretary briskly scheduling his life. 

Sherlock chewed on that possibility.  No, that wouldn’t be enough time.

“Six months?  That’s usually standard for couples’ ‘honeymoon’ period.”

Yes, the neurochemistry ought to have faded by then.  But then again, he strongly suspected that it wasn’t the vexing combination of chemicals that was pushing him to placate Molly.  He had felt lust before, and it was a lightning bolt, both blinding and disorienting him in an instant.  This was different; with Molly, he saw clearer, and was better because he genuinely wanted to be better. 

Besides, there was going to be an inaugural Swedish microbial symposium in nine months, and Sherlock had already planned for them to attend it together. 

“Nine months then?  No—well, surely you’re not going to request a whole year with me?” Molly asked, eyes wide with some alarm.

“If morons can manage a relationship for decades, I think I am perfectly within my rights to retain you for twelve months,” Sherlock countered.  He reached down to her hands and pulled her to stand.  Then he sat, and welcomed her into his lap.  “And don’t call me Shirley,” he said impishly.  After a pause, he added, “No, seriously don’t.  It reminds me of dull people.”

Molly laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck for stability—and because she liked him, he was certain to note. 

“And then?  Come next spring?  You’ll end it?”

He shrugged.  “I think by that time I’ll have assessed whether or not I’d like to make it a permanent arrangement.”

Molly barked out a laugh.  “Really?  You do realise that it’s quite normal to spend a few years together and still not know whether or not one is ready for marriage?”

“Yes, it’s normal for normal people.  We are not.  You’re the one who pointed it out; our romance was physically initiated just last night—or technically, this early morning.  And it was in this short amount of time that I’ve decided I’m willing to attempt a relationship with you.  Not because of hastiness, or inexperience, or impatience—“

“All of which you have in spades,” Molly muttered, and Sherlock frowned for a second, wondering how even his mental composition of her managed to ridicule him.

“But because this is simply how I am.  It only takes me a few seconds to see what others take ages to spot.  It only takes me a few days to solve what baffles others for weeks.  I’m valued because I’m fast and I understand many useful things thoroughly.  I understand myself better than anyone—except perhaps, you—and so I can say with confidence that earning your forgiveness, and moving on with you, especially after you truly regain your memories, are the next steps I ought to take.”

“It was a different story this morning,” she warned him knowingly.  “What was all of that, about ‘happily ever after’ being boring?”

He gave a martyred sigh.  “Despite accusations of childishness, I am jaded and old enough to know that nothing comes for free.  All of these things which I demand come at a price, and thus I will have to pay in… _obligations_.”  Sherlock said the last word in the same way others might have said “human sacrifices.”  Still, he didn’t plan on making it easy for Molly, and there was no doubt that she would have to dole out a great deal of rewards or threats to make him attend a few social functions with her. 

“And here I thought it was just your introduction to my breasts that had changed your mind,” she quipped with a mischievous smile.

Sherlock’s eyes wandered much lower.  Yes, he had been critical of them before, but that was Molly’s fault for hiding them; also, he learned that the best way to judge breasts was through tactile investigation, and that was hard to accomplish given the silly modern ideas of “personal space.”  Sherlock looked again, and realised that, quite simplistically and quite male, he missed her breasts.  And, try as he might, he probably couldn’t fully recreate their softness, and pleasing weight, and how they filled his hands so responsively—

Sherlock felt himself hardening following that licentious train of thought, and cleared his throat before looking back up at her.  “I do thoroughly enjoy your breasts, Molly,” he informed her seriously, “but they’re not the only things to sway me.”

“Well!” she chirped quite happily, her cheeks a pretty pink as she tightened her embrace around him.  “I’d have thought it’d be a bit more difficult!  With you being you, and all!”

“Molly, I know you’re perfectly capable of intelligent speech, but when you insist on mangling grammatical structure like this…”

“I just meant,” she interrupted, “nobody ever thinks you’ll become attached to anybody, because of your aversion to feelings, and affections, and…you know…sentiment.”

She added the last word as if it were a naughty one, and if she wasn’t the woman he decided to romance, he’d have dropped her from his lap for her melodrama.  “That’s ridiculous,” he huffed, “I’ve overcome my aversion for such things long ago.  Obviously.  What else would motivate my lengths to protect people other than myself?  Do you really think it’s that difficult to find somebody else to blog my skills competently?  Or do my house keeping?”

“Well you didn’t seem to do as good of a job at either,” she informed him archly, but continued before he could argue, “But I’m glad that’s settled then.  What next?”

Here his confidence wobbled, and his smile vanished.  “I don’t know.  I just want to be with you.  But you’re not here.  I suspect you’re with Meena, and that woman keeps a cricket bat by her bed.  It’s meant for burglars but she’ll make an exception for me.”

Molly ran a languid hand along his neck, and wound her fingers through his hair.  “Poor Sherlock,” she consoled him.  “Just stay for a bit.  Maybe I’ll come back.  You don’t want to go to the Watsons, as they’ll both try to tell you off, and you don’t want to go to a hotel, because you’ll see all the spots they missed in cleaning.”

“Right again Molly.”  He stared up at the cerebral conjuring of his pathologist, and longed for the original.  Either he was getting mawkish, or he thought that he felt a physical manifestation of this longing in the left part of his chest.  “I do enjoy you, Molly,” he confided, in a fond voice he would have never had been comfortable to use outside of his Mind Palace.  “So much.   I wish I hadn’t wasted so many years not enjoying you.”

Her smile was small and wistful, much like the real Molly’s would have been.  She kissed him softly.  “I know, Sherlock.  Just go to sleep.  Things will be better in the morning.”

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm TREMENDOUSLY sorry for the delay! Life went a little bit topsy-turvy since my last update. Please forgive any mistakes and I solemnly swear I will not take an eternity to post the next chapters! Thank you for the continued feedback and support.

* * *

 

 

He awoke first to the loud tapping of rain against Molly’s windowpane.  Then, as he tried to fall asleep once more, he heard a key unlock the front door, sounding loud and ominous in the dark stillness of early morning.

He sat up quickly and tried to make himself presentable by rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and discarding the now wrinkled jacket.  But wait—then she’d call him a pervert again just for waiting in the dark.  He could turn on the lamp, he guessed, but then he didn’t understand how illumination lessened the base implication—

“You slag, you said you’d text—Goodness!  Sherlock!” Meena gasped as she swung open the door.  She held one hand to her chest as she recovered from her surprise, and had been shaking her closed umbrella in the other.  “Why are you not in the guest room?”

“I’m taller,” Sherlock automatically excused his entitlement to the main room, but then frowned in confusion.  He stood and brushed past the woman to walk down the hall.  He didn’t think that he could have slept through Molly’s return, no matter how quiet, but she was a woman of surprising skills.  “Molly has graciously offered to take the guest room during my…stay…” 

They both stood in the hall and silently stared at the empty spare room.  Toby, who had overcome his dislike of the pheromones, lounged in the middle of the unmade bed, looking a bit lonesome. 

“I thought,” Meena began uncertainly, “I thought she stayed here with you last night?  To talk things out?”

“I assumed she went over to yours,” Sherlock answered, now turning to observe the front end of the flat.  There were no signs of forced entry, no struggle, nothing out of place or missing except for Molly and her mobile.  “Do you mind ringing all her friends?  To see if she went to theirs instead?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Meena said, reaching within her purse, “but it doesn’t make sense.  She and I talked last night, because she wanted to come over before you made it back in time to see her.  But then she said you knocked…?”  The woman trailed off as Sherlock shook his head.

“No.  Why would I knock?  I have a key.”

“So—so—“  Meena’s mind was clearly scrambling to catch up as Sherlock fed Toby again and then grabbed his mobile from the bed.  “So somebody knocked last night, and now Molly’s gone somewhere…well, maybe she could have recognised the person.  Maybe she went out with him?  Or her?  But, she was supposed to text me,” she debated with herself as Sherlock ignored her, dialing the necessary people in rapid succession. 

“Lestrade?  Meet me at Molly’s.  She’s missing.”

“John, Molly’s, now.”

“Mycroft, I need you to mobilise a search team and gather all the recordings from the CCTV cameras within a three mile radius of Molly’s flat.  Last night.  Around—“

He snapped his fingers impatiently to a dazed Meena, who took several minutes to figure out what he wanted.  After a few minutes of searching through her call history, she showed him her screen, which indicated the call ended by 18.23, and Sherlock relayed the information impatiently.

“I know she’s slow but she was last in contact.  Let’s get twelve hours before and after…Yes, Lestrade and John…I assume so, but only if she could find somebody to mind Helena.”  Molly’s best friend and last contact watched in avid admiration and fear as the man she loathed conversed with somebody oddly named Mycroft about the details of the area, the current state of Molly’s mental health, the likelihood of her survival, and the disturbingly long list of Sherlock’s vengeful enemies who might have known about his association with Molly, in alphabetical order.

“But I haven’t angered any of them lately,” Sherlock added after he described Victoria Zinkie’s last known whereabouts.  They both heard steps at the door, and Meena leapt a foot in the air.  It was not that Lestrade was particularly startling, but the charged atmosphere and panicky uncertainty made her jumpy.

“Lestrade’s here.  I expect updates soon.”  He ended the call and once again rushed past Meena as if she did not exist.

“Did you bring your team?” he asked sharply.

“On their way.  Meryl will be here first though, to take prints.”  The man looked about him, concerned but professional, eyeing the table, the counter, the switches, and the doorknobs.

 “Don’t waste your time, I don’t believe this person crossed the threshold,” Sherlock advised, and then looked over the shoulder at another newcomer.  This one’s face was just as grim, and yet almost expectant.  Like a loved one going missing was just part of his life.  “John, Molly’s gone missing—“

“Are we sure though?” Meena asked, finding it hard to breathe.  She didn’t mean to sound so loud, but everything was moving quite fast.  The three men looked at her in surprise, as if she truly had been invisible until then.  “Are we sure that that’s what happened?  She could have just known the person who knocked last night, or maybe thought that she did, and just gone off with them and then stayed over when it was too late—“

“Oh somebody shut her up before she hyperventilates and ruins my concentration,” Sherlock impatiently ordered as more of Lestrade’s team arrived. 

“Sorry,” John said as he approached her, motioning her to sit at the kitchen table.  “He gets like that.  Do you think you could answer some questions?”

“I—I spoke to her!” Meena explained with wide eyes as she looked up at him.  “I told her not to answer the door!  I told her to escape out the window.”

“Why?” John asked urgently, fishing a notepad and pen out of his coat pocket.  “Did you know it was someone dangerous?”

“No,” she answered, looking more and more downcast, “I thought it was Sherlock.”

John paused in his writing and gave a comforting grin.  “Well, it was good advice either way.  But listen, you’ve nothing to feel guilty about.  Molly knows that when you do the kind of work that we do, there are risks.  I’m sure that she was very careful and used common sense after she ended the call with you.”

“She knew,” Lestrade corrected as he supervised the others.  Meryl and her assistant were dusting for prints throughout the home anyway, for fear of missing something, while Donovan started on Molly’s laptop after that had been processed.  Anderson was not present, thankfully, or Sherlock would have probably physically hurt him the second he said the wrong thing.  “She knew,” Lestrade repeated, “but we don’t know what she’s aware of now.”

“Eighty-five percent of her memory has been recovered,” Sherlock said, never looking up from typing on his phone.  “Then again, it’s an arbitrary number,” he added softly to himself.  He stood in the middle of the flat, between the kitchen and the sitting room, and could have been mistaken for a statue if not for the alacrity of his texting fingers.

“There’ll be no clues here, not if she answered the door and went willingly.  Check the stair well.  I’ve sent a notice to my homeless network.”  His mobile vibrated, and he read it quickly before moving behind Sally at the coffee table.  “Mycroft’s sent me four hours of the camera at the southwest corner.  It will be easier to review on—“

Sally had been skimming Molly’s most recent emails until Sherlock started speaking, and she wordlessly  opened a new browser when an unprovoked chat window popped up.  A video bloomed onto the blackness, and only the light of street lamps allowed them to see small glimpses of the buildings and alleyways sharpening into view. 

“Greg,” Sally called her boss’ attention before Sherlock hushed her sharply. 

It didn’t matter.  There was no sound.  There was only the narrow cobblestone walkways, shuttered doors, and filmy, abandoned windows of what looked like turn of the century industrial architecture.

“Screen shot, now,” John instructed needlessly, for Sally was already doing so.

It was a series of three shots, from three stationary cameras positioned in the same long path, and in each view, a person began as tiny before looming closer, running as fast as physically possible.  The scenes were crudely edited together, but it was easy to see the face when she dashed past the first camera.  Molly. 

She was still wearing the yellow shirt and jeans, although he could see nothing but shades of grey.  Her ponytail was mussed but the band still held loosely—her hair had possibly been pulled in a rough grip.  In her face there was stark terror; her eyes were wide and she every few seconds she tried to see behind her.  They tried to follow her focal point, but whoever it was, the pursuer wisely stayed out of view of the cameras. 

His teeth clenched at the sight of her, looking more animal than human, nothing left of her clever mind except the atavistic fear of being caught.  The bastard was taunting her.  The woman was clearly exhausted to the point of collapse; she had been running long before she entered the first shot, judging by the amount of sweat dripping down her face.  By the end of the third shot, she was no longer sprinting in a straight line.  She stumbled, and her arms wavered before her uncertainly.  Her mouth had been moving the entire time, but, oddly, the abrasive thunder of wind against a mic echoed into the room at the last second, at the same time she cried out, “Sherlo—“

They only saw from above as something made her stumble, and then she fell nearly out of view.  Only her left foot remained in the frame.  Molly had been shot from behind.

It wasn’t his imagination; Sherlock sincerely felt his heart stop and then skip when the video allowed sound.  He had never heard anything so raw as her desperate, hysterical cry for him.  It reverberated in his heart, clawed at his brain, and mocked all his intelligence and capability.  For one second that felt like eternity, Sherlock Holmes was undone.

“See if you can play it again,” a woman said from the door.  “If you’ve successfully recorded it, send it to Anthea and Mycroft,” Mary added sharply as she joined the small crowd in front of the laptop.  She noticed Meena belatedly and asked with concern, “Are you all right?”

“I’m not feeling well,” Meena said unsteadily.  “I think I should—the loo.”

“No, I have to go,” Sherlock declared brusquely, turning on his heel and marching straight to the toilet.

“Sherlock,” John protested as he gently held Meena’s wrist to check her pulse.  “I think Meena ought to—“

Nothing more could be said.  He hadn’t even bothered to close the door.  They all stopped in their tracks as they heard Sherlock violently purge the meagre contents of his stomach into the toilet.  Then the water ran, and he returned, appearing notably pallid, but without any other indication of trouble. 

“Sherlock,” Mary began worriedly, but she was cut off as Sherlock pulled the laptop away from the detective to quickly identify the IP address of their current connection.  He texted the information to his brother, asking for a trace to any unwarranted connections, before pushing it back to the woman.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Sherlock said emotionlessly, “Play it again, Donovan.”  The woman right clicked and started it again.

“They took the time to edit it, and even chose when to allow the sound,” John noticed as he tended to Meena from the kitchen.

“Not CCTV,” Lestrade observed, his voice gone strangely detached.  “Too advanced.  Look at that definition.  Each one adjusts its focus as she approaches.”

“Very planned,” Mary added, “They chose this alley, and already took the time to set up cameras before they got her and made her run.  They either transported or released her just beyond this first camera, or chased her from here in such a way that she was led there.”

“Do we have an ID on location, yet?” John asked as he prompted Meena to breathe into a paper bag retrieved from Molly’s cupboard. 

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock…”  Funny, four people said it, some with anger, and some with concern, but nobody knew what to say after.

Mary, who had missed most of the video, was watching intently without a word.  It was only until she saw it for a second time did she give her analysis.

“She might not be dead.”

“Shut up Mary,” Sherlock snapped suddenly.  He nearly turned away until she grabbed his elbow, and forced him to face the screen. 

“No, look.  Just before she gets to that gutter?  There’s a stone out of place.  When she pitches forward, it might not be from the impact of a bullet.”

 “She didn’t just fall, though, Mary,” Sally said uneasily.  “Something hits her, I’m sure of it.”

Mary pursed her lips.  “It could be a tranq.  It doesn’t hit with the same impact.”

“Don’t be a child,” Sherlock warned, disgusted.  But by now John also stood, and watched the replay just as critically. 

He considered his wife’s optimistic suggestion seriously.  “No, I mean—we’ve seen men shot from behind, Sherlock.  It’s more…” John trailed off, gesturing with hands helplessly.

Donovan pushed her open palms forward into the air abruptly.  “Like they’re jerked forward, with a string tied to their bones.  Like they’ve been harpooned,” she finished.

“Yes,” John agreed, “like that.  Hers is more graceful, has more of an arc.  It doesn’t look good, but it might not be as bad as we think either.”

“But what would be the point?”  Lestrade demanded.  “There’s nothing with this, right Sally?”  The woman shook her head.  “What’s the point of sending this, if there’s no ransom note or anything?  Other than to fuck with our heads?”

“You underestimate the importance of ‘fucking with our heads,’” Mary said.  “It’s hard to physically incapacitate Sherlock, and it’s nearly impossible to do it intellectually.  But emotionally—“

“This is nothing,” Sherlock said in a deadened voice.  “I can solve this easily.  All I need is some peace.”

For a few seconds, nobody said anything as he closed his eyes, retreated within himself, and focused.

But Molly was there.  Molly was running, gasping, crying out “Sherlo—“

He let out an abrupt growl of frustration, and turned away from them all to kick at the wall.  She hated him, she had been totally repulsed by him, but his was the last name she called out.  What did it mean?  Did she want him?  Did she blame him?  He had to know.

“Sherlock?” John asked cautiously.  “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he answered, knowing his voice sounded cold but could do nothing about it.  If he felt nothing, he could work.  If he allowed himself to feel one thing, even something small, he’d lose control like he did in the toilet a moment ago.  The moment Molly had jerked unnaturally forward, Sherlock had felt as if an icicle had stabbed upwards through his stomach and into his heart, then twisted violently until he had nothing to do except purge the pain.  The actuality of her death had a curious physical effect on him and, if he weren’t so distraught, he would have analysed it voraciously.  But, as it was, dwelling on the possibility—fact, his mind whispered insidiously—of Molly being dead undid him, and so he avoided the topic.  An uncontrollable Sherlock was a useless Sherlock.

“Mycroft will be here any minute.  Once we get the footage and trace the kidnapper, we’ll find Molly.” 

It was unspoken, but all present knew the implication in his words.  They would find her; the chilling conviction in his voice would not allow them to believe otherwise.  But nobody, not even Sherlock, knew whether or not they would find her alive.

 

* * *

 

 

When she first awoke in a strange place, Molly did three things:

First, she took stock of herself.  She felt tenderly on the side of her head, where a portion of her hair had been shaved off to allow for stitches.  The sheared area was about the size of her thumb, and the rest of her hair most likely hid the damage, but still, she was instantly resentful.  Then she noticed a plaster and slight soreness in her inner elbow, and guessed that she had had an IV put in recently.  She’d worry about what was running in her veins later.

Secondly, she noticed the plain, serviceable room, with dated flowery curtains.  This floral patterned matched the wallpaper and canopy.   On her was a faded quilt, and in the corner was a heavy wooden wardrobe.  It was exactly the kind of room one was given while staying with a grandmother.  While this was somewhat comforting, Molly knew in her bones that she had no idea where she was.  The amount of times she had awoken in an unfamiliar room recently made her feel paradoxically special and bromidic. 

Thirdly, she pulled on her shoes, retightened her ponytail, and attempted escape.

It was relatively easy, and that in itself should have warned her that it was useless.  Quietly, she left through the unlocked door and found herself in a modest cottage.  After a few steps in both directions, Molly decided to trail to the right, as the left side only led to more rooms.  She found herself in a large, homey kitchen, and, with nobody in sight, she slipped out the heavy, Dutch door.

The wet, earthy smell, and the verdant grass, damp with dew told her it was early morning in an anonymous picturesque countryside.  This was the type of place where one hunted foxes and the like.  There was no fence, and only shrubberies marked the natural boundaries of the yard, so Molly followed along these until she reached a worn dirt path, which she estimated to be the main lane. 

There certainly was a great deal of land for such a small abode, she noticed, and wondered if this was the traditional servants’ quarters for a larger estate.  But there was no telling as Molly walked along, hugging her bare arms, for nearly an hour before she realised her predicament.

Nobody was around!  No houses, no livestock, no fellow pedestrians on the road.  The plan had been to seek aid from somebody she deemed trustworthy, but the opportunity never arose.  The only good thing about that was she was able to relieve herself with little worry about being seen.  Still, part of her would have been very happy at being caught in such an embarrassing state, if it meant being rescued.  Every so often, a copse of trees would vary the landscape, but that was the only thing of interest for miles around.  Sure, the fields were lovely and lush, but Molly much preferred the patterned prettiness of London.

The sun was high and she guessed it to be noon or a little after when the hum of an engine made her jump.  She sat on a tree stump when her kidnapper approached, looking very surprised indeed by her appearance.

“Goodness me, you must be knackered,” the man said pleasantly from the driver’s seat.  He was about her age, although he talked like an overexcited little boy.  His hair was black and slicked back, with a wicked looking widow’s peak.  When he spoke, he looked older, for the lines around his pinched mouth deepened, and the crow’s feet around his round, sunken eyes became more pronounced.  Every part of him was animated; even his thin brows waved wildly with each word, and his pointed chin trembled when he wasn’t speaking, as if he was bursting to be heard. 

He insisted she call him ‘Professor,’ and she complied grudgingly.   Molly strongly doubted he had the necessary academic transcripts to merit the moniker, but she did not say so out of ingrained politeness.  His friendliness, his casual clothes, and his manner could have been normal if he wasn’t leaning out of an expensive-looking old car, the kind upper crust people drove in period films.  She didn’t know the name of it, but she wagered that Sherlock or Mycroft would.

“Though I can’t say I blame you for taking advantage of the weather.  If it doesn’t rain once today I’ll declare it a miracle.” 

She remained stony faced at this meaningless conversation, but the man did not seem discouraged.

“I meant to be gone for only an hour, but I forgot how many shops around here close on Sundays.”

Molly felt her insides freeze at the last word.  She had slept an entire day?

“Oh don’t worry,” he assured her, seeing her wide eyes, “I made sure you stayed hydrated.”  He looked pointedly at her elbow, and then went on airily, “If I had known you wished to sightsee, I’d have warned you that there is literally no help around for miles.”

His voice made her skin crawl—so melodiously mad, as if he sang whilst plotting your murder.

“How many miles?” Molly asked sourly, feeling very up to the challenge of walking them all if it meant getting away from his unnerving, smiling face. 

“Seventeen, at least,” he answered knowingly, as if he could read her thoughts.

Oh lord.  But his language caught her notice; it was not that there was nobody around for seventeen miles, just nobody who would help.  Well, she decided, if she found these people who would apparently side with him and his criminal endeavours, she would at least be able to steal their mode of transport.

“How many miles are we away from the cottage?”

“Four and a half, I reckon.”

“What?  Oh no,” Molly groaned.  She felt that she had been walking forever!  “And what time is it?”

“A little before ten thirty.”

“Jesus Christ,” she murmured to the beautiful, cerulean sky.  “I have got to get in better shape!”

“Well, you do have a concussion, and you pulled some sort of muscle during our production, so don’t be too hard on yourself, love,” he advised kindly, and reached over to open the passenger door.  “Come on, hop in.  I’ll give you a lift.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me?” Molly asked dully, knowing the threat by rote, even in such a short amount of time.  She was already clambering in, hating how happy she was to be seated comfortably. 

“If you don’t, I’ll shoot you,” he agreed amicably, and patted the holstered gun beneath his tweed blazer comfortably. 

They drove with the windows down, and Molly traced the seams in the leather seats in silence.  The breeze felt cool and calming against her skin, and she was happy that he drove slower.  Perhaps the dirt road dictated it.  Whatever the reason, she was in no hurry to return to the cosy home.

“Where are we?” she asked as the cottage came into view.

“Ireland,” he answered, taking on a mocking, thick brogue with the word.

Molly blinked and looked around again.  “Really?”

“Does it matter?” he rejoined glibly, and parked the car just in the lane.

Molly did not know how to take that, and opened her door just as he did to walk around to his side.  Part of her told her to make another break for it, but in the opposite direction.  Or, she could grab something, a rock perhaps, and bash his head in.  But Molly did none of that, for behind that bland smile, and those eager dark eyes, she was almost certain that this man was the epitome of lunacy, as illustrated last night.  For the rest of the walk to the front door, and as well as for the rest of her life, Molly berated herself for her careless actions that led to her abduction. 

She peeked at her captor now.  She could see the outline of her phone in the right pocket of his tan corduroys.  There was no conceivable way of stealing it back without knocking him unconscious.

I should’ve pushed him down the stairs at my building, she thought bitterly to herself as he gestured for her to enter before him. 

Or, she berated herself a bit more harshly, I could have looked through the bloody peephole.  She had been so distracted by the Sherlock fiasco that she forgot common sense.  If she died soon, she wished her last words to him hadn’t been so venomous.

Then again, in hindsight, Molly felt that she could have done a great deal differently the night before.

  

* * *

 

 

She had opened the door thinking it was Sherlock, only to find a strange man standing before her. 

“Molly Hooper, I presume.”

The gun was out and pointed at her heart already, and as he made his brief introductions, he motioned with it for her to follow him down the stair well.  He confiscated her mobile at the same time and pocketed it. 

During this time, her heart hammered with ill restrained alarm and disgust.  Something about him was disturbingly familiar.  “Do I…do I know you?”

His answer had been a bland smile.

Then the bastard had walked her up all the way to the top storey of her building.  Molly had been afraid they’d end up on the roof, but to her surprise, he unlocked the door to Mr. Berrington’s flat.  There was no indication of anybody hearing their entrance, and she sincerely hoped that her neighbor and his girlfriend were simply out, and not dead. 

He had frogmarched her to the first window of the sitting room, which was open, and allowed a damp breeze in.  When he pushed aside the curtains, Molly stepped back abruptly, bumping into the gun barrel as she did.

“Oh, please be joking,” she pled.  It wasn’t that he expected her to jump to her death.  It was worse.

There was a plank placed from the sill of this window to the sill of a window in the building over.  And they were not of equal height, so it appeared to slant down slightly. 

“It’s perfectly stable,” the Professor scoffed, “it” being a piece of wood that was about a foot wide and covered a distance of at least ten meters.  “I couldn’t risk my own death along with yours, now, could I?”

“So you’re going too, then?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yes, or you’ll try to escape, and then I’ll shoot you,” he promised cheerfully, and nudged her along.

Once they had reached the other empty flat—it had taken thirty minutes, but the man was remarkably patient as she inched dozens of meters above the pavement—he pulled the long plank in and shut the window. 

“It seems theatrical,” he agreed to her stony silence, “but there are no cameras pointed that way.”

Then he escorted her through the service exit of the building, to a waiting van.  She was buckled in the back before they took off on an hours long drive.  Naturally, she tried everything she could to help her situation, but there had been no handles, no windows—instead there had been a metal wall between her and the front, which did not seem safe at all.  Astonishingly, during her attempts, she had been so tired that she slept for a few hours, only to be jolted awake by the bumps in the road.  It felt as if they were driving on cobblestone, and that the driver was slowing down.  Molly tried to find another way out with renewed fervor. 

The stranger clucked his tongue in disappointment to find her loose and attempting liberation when he slid open the side door.  But when she thought he was going to threaten to shoot her, or at least slap her around a few times, he only gave her a little push away from the vehicle, towards an abandoned alley way between enormous, old buildings.  They rather looked like warehouses or factories, but it had been difficult to see in the dimness.  It was so dark she couldn’t tell whether the alley ended, or if it opened to a road.

“It’s three miles, from here to the end.  I’d like for you to run it.” 

A little shove broke her from her staring at the surroundings.

“Go,” he prodded, in the same way one would encourage a baby to take its first steps.  “Go on.  I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you stop running.  Or if you don’t run fast enough.  Don’t half-arse it, Molly-girl.”

Molly’s jaw dropped, and she stumbled a few steps back.  “What?”

“Oh, I hate to repeat myself,” he sighed with a roll of his eyes.  He shooed her away with the gun once more.  “Go on, Molly Hooper.”

“Oh please,” she breathed in a desperate whisper.  “Oh please, please, don’t—“

It was extraordinary, how quickly his face transfigured from one of bland harmlessness to dark, contorted anger.  He looked more monster than man.  Molly’s words failed her.  Before she could blink, his free hand shot behind her and she felt a tearing, jarring pain in her skull as he pulled her closer to him.  His grip on her ponytail was unforgiving; she cried out in agony, closing her eyes against the unbidden tears before she opened them again, and found her vision filled with his wrathful, almost inhuman face. 

“Go,” he ground out through clenched, perfect teeth, and the one command puffed hot against her breath for a second before he jerked her back and away from him, making her stumble a little.  She looked at his bottomless, black eyes and then down to the barrel of the gun, but could hardly tell the difference.  Everything drained from her; she could think of nothing, nothing except that gun, and how it was pointed at her.   As if she was merely an observer, floating above, Molly saw herself whirling away to run as fast as her legs could carry her. 

She didn’t know how long she ran, only that every so often she would check if he followed.  The man was never moving when Molly looked, but somehow he was always a bit a closer each time.  Something deep within her pushed and pushed, until she felt as if parts of her body were no longer coordinated with one another.  The legs were wobbly, and weren’t steering in the direction her mind was demanding.  Her sides ached in tight, burning stitches, and her lungs only allowed shorter and shorter breaths.  Why was she even running?  If she was going to die anyway?  The man at the start of the alley was sure to be a crackshot.  Might as well die in relative peace.  Might as well stop running—

Oh god, he’d be furious, she thought to himself as her body tried to quit.

Who?

Who?  Her mind had forgotten bloody names, it was so fucking useless!  But it reminded her of an odd, kind of handsome face.  Oh right, she agreed abstractedly.  He wouldn’t allow her to give up, even if it felt futile. 

Who?

She was nearing her limit.  She could feel the stress of the entire day shut her body down, and Molly knew with fatalistic horror that she would lose her balance soon.  But she had to keep going.  She pictured this nameless man with sharp cheekbones, and how he would agree.

“But not for me,” he’d say in that sinful, baritone voice.  “You have to keep going for yourself.”

It was so nice, so unlike Sherlock to say that.

Sherlock.

“Sherlo—“ she cried out, until the toe of her right foot caught on a raised cobblestone, and she felt herself falling.  Then, Molly felt a punch and a burning in the center of her back.  Her whole body fell, unnaturally heavy, so that she could not even command her arms to brace her harsh collision with the ground. 

Her head hit the ground hard, and the last thought she had before the darkness swallowed was how much it had all hurt, and she hoped there wouldn’t be any pain any more. 

 

* * *

 

 

Presently, the Professor checked her stitches as they sat in a small library.  When they first entered, she noticed it was much like the guest room in which she had awoken.  There was a solid oak and marble desk with a heavy leather chair in the corner.  Near the bare fireplace, there were two similar chairs and a game table.  But while there were many shelves, there were no books.  There was nothing to pick up and throw, or even hide behind. 

All of this Molly absorbed in despair as she was directed to sit.  Then she felt his hands on her and she had to tamp down on the nausea that arose from the touch of his fingers on her scalp. 

“I’m getting better and better at sutures,” the man said in a pleased voice, before taking the seat opposite her.  Between them, on the table was a sort of checkered game board.  There was a row of small dual coloured discs before her, one side black and one side grey, and the same sort of materials set before him.  “I’m a talented dabbler in medicine, if I do say so myself.”

“Why don’t you call yourself ‘Doctor’ then?” she asked cautiously, watching him with distaste.  He seemed to genuinely want conversation, and she wasn’t about to displease him after seeing the horrific way he reacted to disobedience last night.  It reminded her of the scary Bilbo scene in the Fellowship film.

“Because then you have that nonsense of ‘Call me the Doctor’ and then they inevitably say ‘Doctor Who’ and it’s just unoriginal, you know?” He began to set up the board, placing four discs in the center squares, so that grey was diagonal from grey, and black was diagonal from black.  “You looked ill, just a second ago,” he noticed.

“Because you were touching me,” Molly told him, and then wished she bit her tongue.  Saying that sort of thing was a prime way to get bad guys to torture you.  She wasn’t planning on being one of those witty heroines who enjoyed banter with their captors whilst hatching a phenomenal escape plan.  She didn’t have any plan at the moment, except live through the hour. 

“Oh.  I thought it might be a side effect from the sedative,” the Professor said with a little disappointment.  “I’ve something for that, if it is.”

“No thank you,” she replied with a shrug. 

He sat back and smiled widely at her.  “Do you know, I really thought Jim had lost his mind—well, moreso—when he spared you.  But I can see it, I really can.  You’re too nice, Molly.  You’re preparing to play this game with me, even though you don’t want to, and even if I did something cliché, like offer your life as a stake.”

Molly now glanced over the game with more concentration.  “And will you?” she asked nervously, looking up at him. 

He laughed, “No, no, please give me some credit.  Jim was fond of such drama, although I guess that’s a family failing.  Now, the game is Othello.  You will be black.  The object is to capture and turn the opponent’s pieces.  You can only move to capture.  No placing your pieces in the corner and waiting out the war, little mouse.”

Molly observed him and nodded slowly, wishing she could stab him with a fork for calling her that. 

“How do I capture and turn?”

“You must ‘surround’ me.  But not really.  There simply must be one piece on each end of a row of my pieces.  You can capture one, two, three, or whatever amounts of greys simply by having your black at the end here, and placing another black at that end.  Once you do, all of my greys in between may be flipped over to black.  At the end, whoever has most of their colour on the board wins.  Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

There ensued the tensest, oddest time of her life.  Almost too quickly, he was defeating her round after round.  Molly would barely place her black circle down before he was already capturing her pieces, as if he had already predicted her turns.  By her estimation, she was only two turns from losing her fourth game when her stomach audibly growled, and the man pushed way from the table slightly. 

“My fault,” he said.  “I should’ve known you’d be hungry.  You always lunch at noon, yes?” Without waiting for an answer, he stood and left quite swiftly and casually.  As he walked away, he retrieved his mobile from his pocket and summoned a hidden television from the desk in the corner, upon which a grainy montage began to play.

It was a canteen?  No, just a bare room that almost looked like a classroom, with its rows of tables and chairs, if not for the grim quality of it.  Two men sat at a table in the center.  One was Sherlock, and the other was a prisoner, judging by his conversation and uniform. 

_“…saying I weren’t a real man—“_

_“Wasn’t.”_

Molly tried to ignore the dialogue as she once again scanned the room for possible weapons or methods of escape, but her captor swiftly returned with two plastic plates of sandwiches. He sat down with the same studied air of nonchalance, but she sensed his renewed attentiveness.  The stranger was watching her, wanting her reaction to these scenes of Sherlock’s cruelty.

_“…then I done it.”_

_“Did it.”_

Okay Molly, she thought to herself sternly as she continued to play, only biting into her sandwich after he had bitten his. It was just a man, she tried to tell herself.  It was just one man, with one gun, and she was Molly.  She had done incredible things.  She could live through this.

 _“Hanged yes_.”  Sherlock’s obvious schadenfreude was a bit sickening to behold.  She quelled a wince, and stared at her plate, wondering if she could make some sort of weapon with it. 

He grinned, though his black eyes were still on the board.  “No questions? Comments?”

“I suppose this is the part where you tell me I work for a bad man and reveal your master plan?” she murmured, eyes fastened to the board, whereupon the battle was still evenly matched. 

“Oh Molly,” he sighed as he toyed with a disc between his knuckles.  “Don’t be cliché.”

“Likewise,” she snorted.  Finally, tired of losing and hating the fact that she enjoyed his brie and apple sandwiches so much, Molly raised her gaze to meet his.  “You’re like Jim, but not,” she accused evenly.

He eased back and contemplated this idea, finally nodding with reluctant agreement.  “Yes.  I’m Jim.”

“Two Jims?”

“I prefer James, though, if you please,” he added politely, and that was the extent of his clarification. 

Distantly, she heard a tinny crash, and her peripheral vision told her that, at some point in the recent past, Sherlock had apparently thrown a man out his window.  She swallowed and almost spoke when she noticed that…

No…

Yes.  He was throwing him out the window again.

Molly, she told herself sternly, he’s just trying to rattle you.  Never mind that it’s working.  Just don’t let him see it. 

"There was a James and a Richard. Has been all along." Again, he looked at Molly as if she was to light up with enlightenment. Instead, she disappointed him by starting blankly.

“That’s very…odd,” Molly finally offered, as soap opera-y was not a real adjective.  “Ah.  So you’re here for revenge, for Ji—I mean, Richard?”

He tsked.  “If I wanted revenge, you’d be dead.”

Just then, on the screen, a loud bang involuntarily snatched Molly’s attention, and she just barely caught herself from gasping aloud at the sight of Sherlock having shot that important business man, what was his name?  Magnussen, that’s it—point blank.

Her eyes were wide when she turned her gaze back to James, who reached for his mobile once more to mute the sound before observation her expression.

“I don’t make heavy decisions emotionally, you know.  It gets very messy that way.  Look what happened to Jim—“

“Jim-you and you’re speaking in third person, or another Jim?” she asked, genuinely confused.

“Oh, right, I didn’t explain it well, did I?” he laughed softly.  “Some people love that part, that grand reveal, but I find it tedious.  In short, Richard—whom you knew as Jim—and I were twin brothers.  He lost the plot a while back—I suspect hereditarily but luckily it skipped me—and assumed his warped version of my identity.  So yes, very _Eastenders_ , except I’m not the evil twin.”

Molly searched for signs of comical irony.  But no, he was entirely serious when he proudly claimed, “I deal in justice, Molly, and somebody must teach a certain detective that there are consequences to ‘selfish, reckless Sherlocking.’”

Molly blindly placed her black disc down and quickly tucked her hand under the table to hide the shaking.  Good god.  How much did he know?

“He’s been Sherlocking for years,” she pointed out snidely.  “Hasn’t seemed to bother you until now.”

“He hasn’t bothered my friends until now,” he returned, unperturbed by her caustic tone.  “Besides, it was easier to retire to the continent since Jim was running amok on your miserable little island.  Still—retiring too early can drive one mad, eh?”  He frowned when she remained stony faced.

“So why are we wasting time in this shoddy little shack then?” she prompted impatiently. 

He sighed.  “Call it curiosity.  On one hand, I’ve given every reason to portray you as dead.  But if they’re patient enough, they’ll learn you’re not.  Just want to see how much they care.  I—oh, you don’t approve?”

Part of her wished they stayed in strained silence whilst he trounced her on the board.  “It’s just very inefficient.  Waste of time and effort, this dramatic way of introducing yourself.” 

“Yes, well, it sort of accomplishes what I need.  I want to meet the Holmes brothers, though in my territory.  I want to assess their response time to my embedded technology.  I want to see how they deal with the landmines.  I want to avenge poor Marcus.”

Molly was nodding as she captured a row of four grey discs and had just flipped the last to black when she was startled by that last detail.

“I’m sorry?”

“Marcus,” he sighed, very peeved, and it was clear this bloke really did not like repeating himself.  “I had a dog, Abstrich—ask your Sherlock what it means, if you survive—who escaped once.  Marcus found and took very good care of him until I retrieved the naughty thing.  He’s had my friendship since then.”

Molly tried to summon the forgettable face and personality of the policeman, and could not imagine somebody so harmless could have called upon a mastermind such as this—

Jim laughed.  “Not that Marcus knows what I’m doing for his sake.  That’s the way to dole out justice:  anonymously.  And I hate it, absolutely despise it, when villains don’t get their comeuppance.  Don’t you?”

“You think Sherlock’s the villain?” Molly asked thoroughly confused.  “Do you think I’m a villain’s accomplice then?”

“I think of you as collateral, when I think of you at all,” he assured her with a shrug.  “I won’t punish you for associating with him, for your own stupidity will do that in the end.”

“But it’s not equal justice,” Molly argued as she heatedly took her turn.  “All he did was give Marcus his trenchant treatment that he gives everyone.  He didn’t kidnap anybody of yours, he hadn’t spied on your private communications, he hasn’t done anything to remotely deserve—“

“If it was just Marcus you’d be right, but he’s been doing this for years, Molly!” James chided with a disbelieving laugh.  “You know it!  How many people has he left distraught, or financially ruined, or emotionally traumatised because of his ‘trenchant treatment.’  Just because he helps the law doesn’t mean he’s earned impunity.”

“So what?  Are you the patron saint of hurt feelings then?  James Moriarity, the Archangel of the Wounded Egos?” she snapped, unable to believe what she was hearing. 

He scoffed to the heavens, as if asking invisible cherubim to get a load of this nutter.  “Oh, if only it were so harmless, Molly-girl!  But he puts peoples’ lives in danger, doesn’t he?” He gestured to the muted television, where scenes of Sherlock’s past violence played on silent loop, and Molly knew she had no feasible argument against such evidence.  She could only assume that, since it took a great deal to provoke Sherlock to give any effort at all, those men must have done some enormously evil deeds to provoke his physical wrath.

He continued, “I’ve known it for years—Marcus was simply the last straw.”

“Forgive me,” Molly bit out, “for being unoriginal, but what do you know?  You watch us from hidden cameras and think you know everything about us?”

“Oh, my monitoring goes a bit further than cameras,” he assured her with a crafty smile.  “For instance, Sherlock Holmes has Crenton Cleaners saved on his mobile.  Did you know?”

Molly said nothing, for he was sure to explain and she was sure to dislike the story behind it. 

“But there is no Crenton Cleaners, Molly.  It’s his source, you know.  Why would he still keep his supplier of cocaine if he quit?”  The Professor had taken on an exaggerated tone of surprise, and Molly felt sick to her stomach again.  “Now, I’m not saying that he still has the goods hidden in his flat—couldn’t risk it, I suspect, after that last ‘relapse’—but it is very telling, isn’t it?”

When she said nothing, Moriarty twisted the knife.  “To think.  You were ready to welcome him into your bed and he didn’t have the common decency to inform you of his most recent past drug use.  You just can’t find good shags these days.”

It was her turn.  It was her turn but her hands stayed in her lap, wringing and squeezing her fingers to try to force the trembling from them.  She would not cry.  She would not let herself, not in front of him. 

But it would be a lie to say that she was unaffected by this.  Something told her that this was true, and Sherlock had been even worse than she previously thought—which was already pretty bloody bad. 

“Molly,” he prompted.

“I’m tired,” she admitted, voice only slightly tremulously.  “I’m tired and I don’t want to play with you any more.”

“Oh,” he emitted, disappointed.  “I thought it would be kinder to give you occupation during your last few hours.”

She frowned and snapped her gaze up.  “Meaning?”

“I just thought it would be nicer if you didn’t sit in your room, counting the last three hours of your life in absolute boredom or worse—introspection.”  At her blank stare, he added, “In three hours, either they attempt to rescue you and I finally have a chance to meet the brothers who destroyed my brother, or I kill you.  I’ve no use for a pathologist you know, so it wouldn’t make sense to take you on the road with me.”

Molly stared, and blinked several times.  Her hands stopped shaking and the tears that threatened to well up suddenly vanished. 

So.  No matter what she said, or did, or played, he had known that there were only three hours left for her.  Right.  As condemning as that was, it also felt oddly liberating.

“If I had a choice of hearing your voice,” she began steadily, “or complete silence for the rest of my life, I will wholeheartedly choose silence.” 

“Don’t be so dramat—“

“I’d honestly rather drive corkscrews into my ears,” she interrupted through a clenched smile, “than have you speak to me again.”

“Oh fine,” he huffed and stood,  “This is what I get for trying to be nice.”  He roughly escorted her back to the room in which she had awoken, and locked the door.  “Enjoy the utter boredom in there,” he mocked.  “Should match the preceding years of your life,” she heard him mutter under his breath as he walked away.

She had no way to measure the time except for the progress of the sun outside, and so she tried to cook up a scheme fast.  She attempted the window first, naturally, but found that the glass was special in some way; there was not a single mark on it even when she struck at it with her hands, kicked at it with her feet, and pried one of the poles from the canopy to swing at the panes.  Trying to open it in the normal way did nothing as well.  Right, so that was out.

When she tried the door, she thought she heard movement just outside, and wouldn’t put it past this arsehole to be waiting outside the entire three hours.  In fact, given his affinity for surveillance, there were good odds that he was monitoring her progress right now, and was only tolerating it because it amused him.  Bastard. 

Well, if she found an escape route, she’d just have to be quick about it then, before he could intervene.  It was the only option she could think of.

But what about the landmines? Her memory asked timidly.  Molly glanced outside, and noticed that the sunny day belied any sort of danger that might have lain hidden in the gently sloped land.  Hmm.  The madman had mentioned them very casually, and she wondered if they were surrounded by them.  Or perhaps they just dotted the lane; Moriarity had driven a winding, meandering way back to the house, but at the time she had thought he was just being whimsical.  Oh, she couldn’t dwell on this now!  She would just have to focus on getting out of the house first, and then try to retrace her steps on the way out.

There was the hope that she’d be rescued.  But she couldn’t rely on that; she wondered if anybody even knew she was still alive.   

She poked at the plaster ceiling with the thin rod—hollow, unfortunately—to see if there was an attic.  Perhaps she could climb the wardrobe and…

There was a sharp rap at her door.  “Half way mark, Molly-girl!”

Molly never considered herself violent, but she sorely wished to shove this canopy rod down his throat if he called her that one more time. 

Right.  So.  Ninety minutes left.  She could do that.  Houdini escaped more dire straits in five minutes! 

Well, she had this rod.  Molly pondered it as she sat on the bed.  And she had the other parts of the furniture as well.  She could catch him unawares, perhaps?  Throw a sheet on his head, hinder his vision and attack?  But he had the gun, and could shoot around blindly in that scenario. 

Her mind went in rapid circles, trying to find a way out in every direction, until she grew so frustrated that she snapped.  Feeling unreasonable and just utterly furious that she would come to this end after such a terrible week, Molly felt nothing but the pure need for destruction.  Fearing and hoping that the sound of chaos would draw her captor near, Molly toppled the bed, smiling in satisfaction when it damaged the opposite wall.  Her eyes lit with an idea. 

With a great deal of grunting, pushing, and pulling, Molly upended the wardrobe as well, but this time in front of her door.  Perhaps she couldn’t get out, but she wouldn’t make it easy for him to get in.  That would buy her some time, she hoped. 

Now.  Time to resume escaping.

Aside from being a great deal messier due to her Hulking Out, Molly saw no new options.  Now, there was just a very destroyed room, and she was more tired than ever.  She sank to the floor, sitting on her calves and clutching at her knees.

“Oh please,” she prayed under her breath, closing her eyes tightly, “I’m not asking anybody to rescue me.  Just…if I’m doing to die today—“

And Molly knew that she would.

“Please, please, please, please…make it quick.”  She despised the thought of him hearing her pray so desperately, especially when she wasn’t particularly religious and he probably knew that, but perhaps the looming thunder muffled some of her words.

Hang on.

Molly opened her eyes and looked out the window.  It was still obnoxiously sunny outside.  But that was a definite boom—

She felt the ground shudder, softly at first, but then violently.  What was left of the canopy swayed as dust fell from the ceiling with each shake.  Before she could run to the window to find the cause, the next _BOOM_ was so strong that Molly was thrown face first to the floor.  Good heavens, what was it—

_“Baaaahhhhh!”_

Molly heard the sheep’s bleats, and then felt the sheep’s stampeding footsteps, and then saw the sheep’s panicked selves swarming around the cottage.  Just as she regained her footing, one poor creature stepped on exactly the wrong spot about thirty yards from her view, and before she knew it, there was wool, blood, and dirt flying everywhere.

“Shit!” she moaned, “It couldn’t have exploded closer?”

Her mind barely had time to register just how heartless she sounded when there was a pounding at the door, and the Professor was trying to come in.

“What the—oh Molly, how rude of you!”  Moriarty sounded only mildly inconvenienced by what she thought was an impressive strategy.

She felt that she stood in the increasingly shaky ground for an eternity, simply watching as Moriarty tried to push open the door, only to be thwarted by the blocking furniture.  Looking at its size now, she realised she must have been totally fueled by adrenaline to have been able to budge it an inch. 

“I’m getting angry now, Molly,” he warned when his hardest shove against the door shook the wardrobe slightly, but it did not topple forward.  There were other sounds, of aircrafts and gunshots, that were coming nearer and nearer, and she knew that was the reason he was no longer enjoying her scheme.  It was probably time to seek shelter.

“Fuck off,” she growled, and quickly sprinted to the corner opposite of the window.  It was optimistic, she knew, to hope that this arse had planted mines dangerously close to the actual cottage, but she figured it was better to take precautions any way.

“Molly, if you don’t open this damn door right now, I will rip your heart out with my teeth.” 

**_POP!  POP!_ **

Molly shrieked when she felt a sharp stab to her leg, but quickly realised that it was only a shard of wood that had pierced through her jeans.  He had shot at the hinges, causing splinters of wood to fly in all directions, and she stared in horror as the door began to be shifted out of the jamb.

**_BOOM!_ **

The removal was hastened by another ferocious blast on the opposite wall; another sheep had found another mine, and this one was stupidly close to her room.  The ensuing, jagged hole in the wall was just what she had needed to escape.  She coughed painfully as the room was filled with stirred up dust and smoke, and squinted through her dirty lashes to find a clear path to freedom; jagged wood and wires were now exposed throughout the once neat and tidy chamber.  Wherever she moved, broken glass crunched beneath her feet.

Molly nearly darted forward when she remembered that, just a few minutes prior, there was a man with a gun a few feet to her left.  The door was gone, thrown back by the explosion, but she saw his silhouette stand unsteadily, and brush himself off.  Moriarty looked down to his left and to his right, presumably to regain his weapon, when another figure suddenly launched itself from the end of the hall way and attacked him.

“Mr. Holmes,” the Professor declared in delighted surprise, sounding only slightly inconvenienced by Sherlock’s murderous intent.  “How good of you to—“  His words were cut off as Sherlock apparently began to throttle him, judging by the noise.

“Molly,” she heard Sherlock shout, “run!”

She could not see the progress but only heard the tussle travel further down the hall and out of sight.  Through the hole she could see the last of the sheep, poor sacrifices, run past.  Molly knew she could dash out and be safe, for the last of the mines had been set off.  She could go and Sherlock Holmes would probably be fine.

“Oh hell,” she swore, ignoring her bleeding leg and climbing over the splintered wardrobe to the opening of where the door used to be.  Molly could not believe she was navigating away from safe escape and towards certain doom for Sherlock's sake. “If I live through this, I’m getting my conscience removed!”

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've been traveling (I saw The Crookes for the first time and I met Tom! Made a total fool of myself but he was very nice and I love them and aaaahhh!). But I'm making up for the delay with an abnormally long (& apologetically un-beta-ed) chapter. Many silly references in this one and bonus points to you if you find them. Thank you for your continued readership! :)

* * *

 

 

It was eleven thirty-nine.  Sherlock felt that Meena had barged into his room, expecting to wake Molly, centuries ago, when really it had only been twenty-eight hours.  Meena had left ten hours before; she was not accustomed to this sort of stress, and was strongly advised by all present to go home and rest. 

Tracing the source of the feed was proving more difficult than the British government anticipated.  Of course they expected the source to be ping-ponged from one city to another.  That was standard.  But as they traced the line to a tiny village in Turkey, only to have it dragged across the world to Guam, John tiredly informed them all that they were on their three hundred and twenty ninth proxy server. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat in Molly’s room.  He had just finished a glass of water, under Mary’s forceful orders, and was watching the video again. 

It wouldn’t have been sent to them if it didn’t lead somewhere.  It wasn’t sent just to taunt him, and nor was it sent for the sake of closure.  Sherlock felt in his bones that the reason was hidden somewhere. 

He was keeping his own private tally, along with John’s.  He had watched it, on average, about four to five times an hour, minus the three hours he spared to sleep intermittently.  The others were worried about this behaviour, but when Lestrade tried to take the laptop away around noon, Sherlock had warned him, quietly but firmly, that if the detective inspector touched Molly’s computer again, he would break his hands.  They left him alone after that.  In fact, when he stalked to her room and closed the door behind him, they continued to float ideas and plans without him.  Mycroft didn’t even bother to inform him of their progress.

They thought that he was incapacitated.  They thought that he had gone off the rails, and it was best they kept him occupied in a dark room whilst they tried to save Molly.

Fine. 

He right clicked and pressed play again on what was the ninety-ninth time when the image blinked, and new greyness filled the window.  It was a room, a study, well made but sparse.  Molly sat before the fireplace.

Sherlock didn’t recognise the beginning of the wild sound that escaped his mouth, but he brutally suppressed it as he tried to breathe properly.  She was alive.  She was alive and not even close to dead.  In all those times he replayed the video, he hadn’t allowed himself to think of her as anything other than a character in a story, a murder mystery he wanted to solve.  But to see Molly, little, tired Molly, sitting so calmly in that chair…

He hadn’t known that he hadn’t been breathing properly until now, when he felt he could exhale without a heaviness weighing him down.  Sherlock tried to see all that he could of Molly, to assess her health, but it was difficult to tell with her seated, despite the high quality of the video.  She was slightly bruised, and visibly haggard, but did not seem on the brink of death.  That was good.  He could talk her into forgiving him, if she was alive.

Someone, a man, mentioned the time and turned—

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  Not… Moriarty?

But he kept talking, in a fluid, unctuous way that, while familiar, was not precisely like that of Sherlock’s late nemesis.  He had Jim’s Moriarty’s face, but not his exact mannerisms or expressions.  An impostor?

The stranger mentioned lunch and Sherlock’s eyes cut to the corner of the screen at the time.  It looked as if they were on the same clock.  He pragmatically held that this was a possible coincidence, despite his and Mycroft’s stance on such things.  Or, if he was feeling optimistic, this was a live feed.

“John!” Sherlock bellowed, scrambling off the bed.  He was momentarily held by the charging cord still attached to the unit, and he yanked it violently out of its plug as he ran out the door.  Mycroft looked offended at being crashed into in the hall, but Sherlock ignored his frown, pointing frantically to the screen.

The others assembled around him as he set it down on the kitchen table.  The man—“Fucking hell, not him again,” Lestrade groaned, and Sherlock did not bother to voice his doubts—on the screen left Molly, and summoned a television to rise from the corner desk as he did so.

A familiar, second hand conversation filled the room as Molly listened.

“That’s you,” Donovan pointed out, confused, and Mary shushed all before Sherlock could.

It was a video of an appointment he had had with a murderous moron.  This portion of the conversation did not place either in the best light, but Molly was not paying attention.  She was shifting in her seat, looking around her quickly for something.  Perhaps a weapon, or the means to escape. 

It was futile, however, for the arsehole swiftly returned.  Still, every so often, her eyes darted to the television, and her brow would furrow with disappointment. 

Their low conversation was muffled as the television then switched to Sherlock throwing a man out the window. 

He wasn’t sorry for that, but out of context, it did look very bad.  Molly was discernibly doing her damnedest to maintain her stoicism. 

Lestrade, who had been leaning forward with the rest of them to watch the screen, now straightened and scowled at Sherlock.  “I almost didn’t believe you about it being twice.”

“Then it’s your own fault for not trusting me more,” Sherlock returned impassively.

“Shhhh!” Mary demanded, and they focused on their abducted friend.  Molly didn’t look very keen on the sandwich, but she also appeared very wan, and all were relieved that both abductor and victim ate their sandwiches without immediately convulsing from poisons. 

“It looks like him,” John conceded doubtfully, “But I don’t think it is.  He’s thinner, for one.”

“Let’s run that face through the database,” Lestrade demanded, and John took the task of capturing the image and sending it to all their mobiles.  “Maybe it’s a cousin.”

Sherlock had a good inkling what as next, but it still did not ease the pain of watching Molly’s face.  She was openly repulsed and horrified when she watched the footage of him shooting Magnussen point blank. 

“How did he get that footage?” Mycroft demanded to the room, sounding as angry as Mycroft could get.  “I destroyed it all personally!”

“You killed Magnussen!” Donovan exclaimed, dumbfounded. 

“Oh we heard the rumours already; don’t pretend,” Lestrade said dismissively.  Mycroft was even more incensed.

“What rumours?  From whom?” 

“Shut up Mycroft,” Sherlock ordered energetically, “Magnussen dies and then I’m suddenly exported?  Of course even Lestrade connected the two.”

“Oi!” The DI interjected, mightily offended. 

“Fuck me!” John shouted, looking up from his own phone, which had buzzed just a few seconds ago.  “We’ve pinpointed the origin.  It only took three hundred and thirty-three bloody tries!”

Mycroft’s assistant stepped out of the woodwork and quietly outfitted Molly’s laptop with a portable wi-fi device as the others began to clear the flat.

Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was being ushered up some stairs and onto the wet, slick surface of the roof.  He was handed earbuds, which he absently plugged into the laptop as he joined Lestrade, John, and Mycroft in the helicopter.  He left one out of his right ear so he could stay in tune to the conversation around him.

“Where are we headed?” Lestrade asked loudly over the unavoidable din.

“Ireland.  South,” John answered curtly as he checked and rechecked his firearm before holstering it.  “He has three identical cottages, exactly three miles apart from one another.  Triangle pattern—He’s not Illuminati, is he?”  Sherlock and Mycroft spared John a derisive look, and he cleared his throat with some embarrassment before continuing.  “The property is near a little town called—“

“I left my gun.  I’ll need to borrow somebody’s,” Sherlock declared abruptly, and held an open palm out for any takers.

“You don’t have a gun anymo—“ John began but then interrupted himself with, “Did you steal my gun again?”

“You have two, don’t be selfish,” Sherlock responded dismissively.  “And besides, I forgot it, as I said.  Pay attention.  Now, somebody give me another firearm.”

“No,” the three men said resoundingly and they had the nerve to place protective ear muffs in his hand instead. Sherlock frowned but put one shell over his left ear, which held the earbud still attached to the laptop.  Ah well, it had been a long shot, he thought and then resumed listening to Molly’s conversation. 

“Right, so, we’re to meet with the local force when we land, and they’ll divide their numbers amongst us,” Lestrade informed them.  “John, you’ll head to the north cottage, I’ll go to the southeast, Sherlock with the last, and Mycroft…er…”

“I assure you I’m not going to lead an ‘op’ any time soon,” Mycroft informed him snidely.  “I’ll supervise.”

“Of course you will,” Sherlock agreed mockingly, but without his usual bite.  He was glad that it was Lestrade who sat next to him and not Mycroft, for the detective inspector swiftly relayed to all the relevant facts Sherlock spit out to the local police force.  “Faint Dublin accent, trying to fade it…oh.  He’s Jim’s twin,” he said, and there seemed to be a collective groan at this revelation from everybody in their aircraft.  Even the pilot looked pained. 

“This bloody family,” Lestrade muttered.

“There are landmines,” Sherlock added, and he leaned forward to see the map on John’s phone.  “Good, there’s bound to be farms nearby.  See if we can steal some herds of whatever and have them roll through.”

“That’ll be a right mess,” John commented and Mycroft wrinkled his nose.

“What else?”

Sherlock sat silently as he listened, then decided this spiel about justice and that forgettable policeman who accidentally endeared himself to a madman by apparently caring for a wayward dog was unimportant enough to talk over.  “Our Jim Moriarty was actually Richard Moriarty, who developed another identity, one that parodied his older twin brother, this original James Moriarty.”

He paused again to listen as John and Lestrade noted this information with raised eyebrows and disbelieving expressions.  “More than likely he was the one who orchestrated the prank with the televisions, to keep me here so he can kill me himself.  He’s supposedly interested in dealing out justice, threatening her, et cetera, et cetera—“

“Can we not be so cavalier about her life, please?” John demanded loudly over the din of the spinning blades above them.

Sherlock clucked his tongue at this scolding.  “She won’t die, John.  Have more faith in her.  She’s wonderfully clever, after all.”  His eyes were so focused on the screen once more that he didn’t notice how his companions raised eyebrows at that comment.

“He wants to test us and our abilities, and he knows about—“

Sherlock just barely stopped the words about his cocaine supplier from tumbling out of his mouth.  Bloody bastard, he seethed inwardly.  How the hell did he know about Crenton Cleaners?

It wasn’t as if he did business with that hooligan recently; Sherlock kept tabs on him because the dealer was an excellent source of information about other tiers of the criminal world.  But of course Molly didn’t know that.  Of course Molly’s face was bare of any façade, and her heartbreak was crystal clear to him as she learned of his continued connection to his past addiction.

“He knows of what?” Mycroft prompted suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Sherlock responded curtly.  “Somebody give me a gun.”  He wasn’t going to kill him, not today at least, for the man had too much knowledge to be eliminated so quickly.  But Sherlock dearly wanted to shoot him in an appendage or two, just to let him bleed slowly for hours. 

“Sherlock…” Lestrade warned, but was waved into silence. 

“All right, she has three hours,” Sherlock declared.  “That’s more than enough time to land, rustle up livestock, and clear the area before we move in.”

“It’s quite a bit of area,” John warned.  Sherlock shrugged this off.  Molly had implied that the house was small.  Land was traversable enough when one could see what was ahead.  It was their advantage that there was no labyrinthine manse to search for her. 

“Anything else?” Mycroft asked, his fingers never leaving his phone.

Sherlock watched as the view shifted belatedly to Molly’s room, where she was in the process of partially disassembling the canopy portion of the bed.  The timing of the switch made him believe that this Professor Moriarty was the one who was manually controlling the direction of the scenes, which bespoke ineffable amounts of arrogance.  A family trait, he supposed.

A brother!  Of course Sherlock knew that that was possible, and naturally Mycroft had searched for possible familial links whilst Jim—no, Richard Moriarty was in custody, but he seemed alone in the world.  Really, at times he seemed so inhuman that Sherlock wouldn’t have been terribly shocked to learn he had hatched from an experimental, Baskerville egg. 

Sherlock looked up at the others, who were all absorbed with their duties.  John was no doubt texting Mary the latest developments, Lestrade was poring over the maps and blue prints of the area they were ready to invade, and Mycroft was watching the water and country side fly by, looking nearly bored.  But it was when Mycroft was bored that he was at his most dangerous. 

If I were to go mad, Sherlock decided, I would not waste lunacy on improving my older brother’s personality. 

“I wager that, whatever the number of landmines, it will be a multiple of three,” Sherlock mused aloud.

“Indeed.  What have I told you about stating the axiomatic, Sherlock?” Mycroft chided, unimpressed.

“What, why?  I don’t get it,” Lestrade interjected.

John began, “We bounced through three hundred and thirty three decoy servers.”

“Then there’s the number of views on her running video,” Sherlock added as he watched Molly continued to search for ways out.  But they were landing, and he couldn’t continue to watch her, and enjoy her being alive, when there was so much to do.  He unplugged the wifi, and the earbuds, and began winding them in his hands. 

He wondered if he ought to have been worried about the unflattering portrait Moriarty had just painted of him, and the way that Molly received it, but, as he had just said, she was very clever.  Even if she did think him an absolute monster, he was clearly the lesser evil when compared with this “professor.”

“Three cottages, triangular pattern…” Lestrade finished.  “Are we _totally_ sure he’s not Illuminati?”

“See?  Thank you!” John agreed with a vindicated sniff.  Again, the Holmes clearly disdained this trite suggestion and did not bother to address it.

“An affectation, it would seem,” Mycroft added as he watched the progress of their lowering to the farmlands below.

“Pitiful attempt to be predictable,” Sherlock droned.  John and Lestrade appeared confused, looking between the two for further explanation.  “It’s some sort of trick, an insulting one at that, designed to influence our ability to discern his patterns.  We assume he’ll work in threes, and, when it’s very important, he won’t.”

“Why bother?” John wondered peevishly.

“To have a laugh?” Lestrade answered for the Holmes brothers.  

“He has a preference for the number, that’s clear, but if it comes down to straying from it for the sake of winning, he will,” Mycroft elucidated. 

“Most likely we won’t encounter that anomaly on this round,” Sherlock said confidently.  At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, he clarified, “Oh come now.  Your teams and the local force?  He’ll escape for sure.”

“Whilst I’ve no faith in the native lawmen, I do hold my staff to a somewhat higher standard.”  Sherlock scoffed and Mycroft continued, visibly peeved, “Would you care to wager on that?”

“Mmm, I would, Myc,” he replied sympathetically, “but I’m afraid I haven’t a single pastry in my possession—“

“Boys,” John cut in sternly as Lestrade rolled his eyes.

Sherlock didn’t think about it anymore as they left the helicopter to walk the length of a field.  The four men waited until the helicopter ascended before conversing again. 

They began to walk to a small home, where a man and his wife waited on the porch.

“Not pissed is he?” Lestrade asked.

“What a racist stereotype,” Sherlock remarked.  He was in good spirits; Molly was alive.  There was another Moriarty to defeat.  And he’d save Queen and country before supper.

“You know what I meant,” the DI retorted.  “We did nearly just prang his cows with a helicopter.  There’s a chance he’s a little upset.”

“It’s an old friend of Mary’s,” John explained shortly.  “He owes her.”

“Just so we’re all on the same page,” Lestrade began thoughtfully, “it’s a trap, right?”

“Oh undoubtedly,” Sherlock called back.

“Yep,” John said, and Mycroft merely nodded, too preoccupied with avoiding animal droppings as he walked the field. 

Then the confidential conversation was cut short as they shook hands with Mary’s past connections, and retreated in to the home to negotiate the farmer’s willingness to part with his sheep.

 

* * *

 

 

After choosing to assist Sherlock rather than escaping through the sheep-made hole in the wall, Molly half jumped, half fell ungracefully from climbing over the toppled wardrobe, and landed her good knee on something hard and metal.  She hissed in pain, but then whooped with joy when she saw it was Professor Moriarty’s firearm that broke her fall.  Quickly, she scooped it up and dashed down the short hall, through the kitchen, and into the study, noting how odd it was that the rest of the cottage remained neat and pristine, despite the chaotic destruction befalling them.

She slowed her steps just before she approached the doorway, having learned from Lestrade and crime programmes that to just barge into a room was a guaranteed way to die.  There were sounds of an intense struggle, and she carefully peered around the doorjamb; she winced when a disheveled and wild eyed Moriarty kicked a crawling Sherlock in the stomach.  They looked distinctly incongruous, covered in dust and their clothing ripped—Sherlock was still wearing what she saw him in two days ago—amidst the bare elegance of the room.  The Othello game and table had been pushed over, the discs spilling into the cold fireplace. 

Just as she swiftly entered, Moriarty tried to kick again, but Sherlock caught the foot and twisted roughly, making the enemy fall hard onto the hardwood floor.  Then, apparently forgetting all style and finesse, Sherlock lunged at him, straddling his stomach as he assailed the man’s head with merciless punches. 

“Stop fighting,” she shrilled, pointing the gun at the pair of them.  “Stop it, and get up!”

Molly wished that the gun wasn’t shaking so badly, for it wasn’t her nerves.  Given how both of these men treated her lately, she would have cheerfully injured the pair of them with a few mean bullets.  But she was very tired, had barely eaten, and was half worrying about exploding sheep killing them all in a few minutes.  It was forgivable, she figured, that her hands quivered around the gun.

“This is surprisingly heavy!” she commented with wonder, looking down at the noticeably trembling weapon before looking up at them as they disentangled themselves from one another and stood slowly.

“Molly, you’re shaking,” Sherlock observed needlessly, a note of worry shading his tone.  

“Oh perfect,” Moriarty said dryly around some blood that was dripping from his nose.  “Billy Connolly, ladies and gentlemen.”

“What a perfectly vile joke to make—“ she began distractedly when Sherlock carefully stepped closer, hands up harmlessly.

“Molly, please…you don’t know how to use that thing.  Hand it over.”

“Yes, Molly,” Moriarty agreed scathingly, “He’s already hurt you in every other way, why not just give him the means to actually kill you while we’re at it?”

“Shut up!” both Sherlock and Molly shouted at the man simultaneously. 

“This isn’t the part where you trick her into switching sides,” Sherlock was snarling as Molly angrily declared, “Nobody’s killing anybody!  For Chrissake, we’re all adults here, we can—“

Molly felt her words knocked violently back down her throat when an explosion rocked the bones of the cottage, so much so that the all the glass in the windows shrieked and shattered.  Whatever it was, it was different, much different, than a poor sheep running over a mine.  Bewildered, she turned to Sherlock for answers, only to find horrified ignorance in his expression as well. 

His peripheral vision caught the movement before she did, for he started with “Mol—“

He didn’t finish in time. 

Moriarty had already lunged, and Molly had already jerked on the trigger by terrified reflex.

The bang was hardly noteworthy when contrasted to the cacophonous assailing outside, but she could feel it echo in her bones.  Molly had never fired a gun, and the recoil caught her off guard.  She fell back just as the man half fell onto her legs, and Sherlock scrambled to pull his inert body almost in the same instant.  Terrified, she immediately released the piece to the floor, but it was too late.  She felt Sherlock’s hands hook under her arms and drag her into a corner of the room, away from the body, and forced her to look away from it.

Something was happening to her ribs—no, her lungs—oh god, she couldn’t inhale, there was a block, or a heart attack? It was squeezing and she kept trying to suck in air, but she couldn’t, oh god, she couldn’t, her vision was blackening—

“Molly!  Molly!” Sherlock was screaming right in front of her, his face inches from hers, but she couldn’t hear him.  All she could do was read his lips, and she could see that he had stopped screaming her name, and instead made exaggerated miming with his mouth and chest, clearly breathing in deeply.  He nodded feverishly at her, motioning her to copy him and she tried as his bloodied hands rubbed at her neck at a steady pace.  There were specks of blood on him at an odd angle, and Molly knew that it was that man’s blood, the man she had just shot; a quick look down at herself showed even more splatter, and her lungs seized again.

“No, no,” he commanded imperiously, forcing her head up with a painful grip on her jaw.  “No, Molly, don’t look at that.  Look at me.  Look at me, Molly.”  She focused on his eyes, impossibly blue and green and pale, and again did her best to mimic him, deeply breathing in before taking just as much time to let it out.

“I shot him, I shot him, I shot him, I shot himIshothimIshothimIshothim…”

Molly was hearing the words long before she learned that she was the one babbling them, and Sherlock nodded, roughly grabbing her and engulfing her in a tight, fearful embrace as more men in uniform approached the windows and peered in with much larger guns.  There was stubble digging irritatingly into her forehead; hysterically, she was surprised by it, somehow believing Sherlock haughtily ordered his facial hair to stop growing and it obeyed. 

Get a hold of yourself woman, you sound mad, her mind ordered frantically.  But that was the thing about a panic attack—there’s the insane you who’s taken over and the sane you who’s lost control, who can only desperately give commands while your body refuses to listen.  And she couldn’t manage her hands; they were clenching, and she couldn’t undo them.  It was panicking her even more. 

“It’s all right,” he told her, barely understandable through his heavy panting.  “It’s all right, Molly.”

Heavy footsteps preceded the arrival of these foot soldiers in the actual cottage, and then several poured into the study.  One observed Sherlock and Molly and confirmed the acquirement of a “target” into his radio. 

“Oh god Sherlock,” she gasped against his shoulder, “I shot him, I killed him, I did it, it was me—“

“John? Lestrade?” he asked over his shoulder without moving, running his fingers through her hair.

“Injured and injured, but they’ll live,” somebody answered.  “The other cottages were booby trapped.”

“Of course they were,” Sherlock muttered, and, still keeping his tight grip on her, he shifted slightly so he could see what they did.  One woman bent on one knee to check Moriarty’s pulse.  Then, to their surprise, she radioed for medical assistance before using her hands to place pressure on the bleeding.

“There,” he offered comfortingly, though with a grimace, “See, there?  He’s alive, Molly.  He’s fine.  You didn’t kill anybody.”

Molly tried to pull away for a better look, but could not fight Sherlock’s determined hold in her weakened condition, and settled for straining her neck to see what was being done.  “I thought I shot him in the heart,” she thought aloud, her breathing considerably more stable now.

“Must have just missed,” he assured her soothingly.  “There now, it’s all right.  You’re fine, he’s fine, we’re all fine.  Okay?  Okay?  Molly, look at me.” 

She dragged her stare away from the medical procedures and looked up at her rescuer. 

Sherlock had taken a beating, despite having had the advantage of surprise.  His right eye was swelling, as was the right corner of his lip.  Tiny cuts and blooming bruises covered his pale skin, but he seemed unaware of the pain as he spoke to her.

“You did nothing wrong,” Sherlock informed her resolutely.  “You were perfect.  There is no need to panic any more, no need to fight.  You are safe.”

He stared at her, and all at once concentrated, taking in the feel of her unwashed hair as he ran his fingers through it, how soft the skin of her tear-slicked cheeks felt against his palms, and the exact dark shade of earth her eyes as they calmed from hysteria.  With the smothering odours of smoke, gunpowder, and sheep nearly overwhelming them, he swiftly lean forward to rest his nose in the crook of her neck, and breathed in deeply the scent of Molly mingled with the smell of sweat and wet grass. 

“What are you doing?” she asked faintly.

“Memorising you,” he answered honestly and pulled back slightly.  “I just—in case something like this happens again, I’d like to have the most accurate portrait of you.”  It was more than that, but he did not feel like articulating the fact that he wished to preserve her forever somehow.  Since the medical field had not yet discovered the means to immortality, he would have to do with keeping her, the realest, most perfect version of her that he could muster, in his mind indefinitely.  

He was mistaken, when he first saw her in the live feed, and had been exhilarated by the chance of earning her forgiveness and continuing a relationship with her.  Now that was he was here and holding her, he thought, No.  That was the problem, wasn’t it?  He had to stop thinking of her in relation to him.  Sherlock realised that he was just happy that she was alive, whether or not they had a future together. 

For the longest time, Molly simply watched him, absorbing every detail of his damaged face and noting how unwavering he was in his words.  He did not even repeat himself, only watching for signs of more hysteria.  Behind him, Molly could see that they were wheeling out Moriarty on a gurney and, for a brief second, they were alone once more.

Swiftly, she pushed herself up and kissed him hard on the lips, ignoring his little noise of pain as she did.  Molly pulled away just as he began to respond, and glowered at him.

“I hate you William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she growled.  Molly wound her hands into his hair and roughly tugged him down to kiss him harshly once more.  Before he could deepen this kiss, Molly again pushed him away and managed to wriggle out of his embrace.  “I mean it, you know,” she said, cruelly enjoying his disorientation. 

“Molly, I think this is the very definition of sending mixed signals,” he scolded, woozy with confusion.  “And you don’t hate me, not really.  You’re in shock.  You need a blanket.”  More policemen and paramedics arrived, and he snapped repeatedly at one as he pointed down at her, “This one needs a blanket.”

She laughed, and without warning, released two sobs as well.  Sherlock stared incredulously and cautiously asked what was wrong.

“Th-th-th-those…” she began, in between chuckles and tears, “p-p-poor sheep!  Oh I’m hoooorible!  I was ha-ha-ha- _happy_ one exploded!”

“Actually, yes, shock is truly setting in now,” Sherlock worriedly informed the arriving medical professionals who separated them as they were examined.  They each had their injuries to be dealt with, and it was no surprise to either when they were told they had to be escorted outside to the ambulance.  He had wanted to ride to the local hospital together, but suppressed his argument when he saw that Molly sincerely needed medical care—ear damage, a puncture wound to her knee, exhaustion, and a panic attack.  Uncharacteristically quiet, he reached over and gave her hand a comforting squeeze before they were separated.  There were several vehicles about, all parked haphazardly around the craters where the mines had been. 

“Hang on,” Sherlock shouted across the lawn before his ambulance door was closed, “You know my full name!”

Molly smiled and waved goodbye as her door was shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

From their particular cottage, three ambulances left for the local hospital.  Only two arrived, and nobody was terribly surprised.  Having established himself in the area decades before, it was understood that he would have sway over the locals, who, after stabilising the criminal boss, helped him vanish into thin air.  Mycroft looked forward to having them sacked, after he could not squeeze one drop of information from them during the short time they stayed in Ireland. 

Mary and Helena had flown from London to visit, and Sherlock would have said it was a perfect waste of jet fuel had he not been so pleased to see his little, chubby goddaughter.  The exceptionally bright baby helped him gain entry into Molly’s private room, where the patient had not been up for company whilst she dealt with the recent trauma.

“No, Helena, I really don’t think she’ll welcome a visitor…” 

Molly looked up from the newspaper when her door opened, and smiled a little when she saw Sherlock stroll by idly, his arms full of a cooing baby. 

“Well, it would be very rude of us to barge in; the doctor specifically said she needed peace and quiet,” he reprimanded the tiny girl as he walked past again, this time in the opposite direction.

“I know you haven’t seen her in ages!  How do you think it’s felt for me, with my grasp of object permanence?  We can’t all forget Molly’s existence as soon as she’s out of sight.  I miss her the instant she’s gone.”

He passed the door again, only this time taking a step in as he continued conversation with the unspeaking infant in his arms.  “What was that? I know it’s a new development, but it’s a pleasant one.”

By now, they had reached her bed, and Molly folded and put away the newspaper on the table by her other side.  She had been reading a local piece about a forgotten WWII era mine test field being discovered by an errant flock of sheep, whose lucky owner had just insured them for well over their estimated worth.  The poor creatures had caused nineteen small explosions, and eight more mines had been found and safely detonated.  But they didn’t address the larger explosions of two cottages, so the false story didn’t interest her any more.

“It’s a bit of cheat, using her to come in,” Molly informed him teasingly. 

“Oh, she insisted. I’m but a slave to her demands,” he replied.  They said nothing for a few minutes, simply drinking in the sight of one another as Helena cooed and gurgled in his arms. 

“How are John and Greg?”

“John got a bit of shrapnel in his hip and has to use a cane for the next few weeks.”  Sherlock could not keep a small smile off his lips when he said that.  “And…who’s Greg?  All right, all right,” he sighed when she rolled her eyes at him.  “He broke his left arm, but otherwise they’re fine.  The other cottages exploded just after they got out.  The only casualties were Moriarty’s employees.”

She looked well.  She had her hair washed, damp and curling around her, and there was colour back in her cheeks.  What little cuts and bruises she earned during her captivity were healing nicely, and they did not need to redo the stitches that had been done by the elder Moriarty.  There were only five stitches in her knee where the shard of wood had flown in, and she had been recommended off of her painkillers and anti-anxiety prescriptions fairly recently.  But what was most telling of her recovery were her eyes—no longer slightly lost or wondering.  She was Molly Hooper again, through and through.

“And you?”

“Oh I’m well enough,” she answered with a wry little grin, but there was not quite enough warmth in her eyes to make him totally comfortable.  These days since the rescue were hardly restful.  There was the recovery, and then the debriefing, and CAT scans and MRIs and just loads of things Molly abhorred. 

“Although I realise that I’ve little right to ask you anything,” he began stiffly, “I’d like to know when you recovered your memories?”

“Oh, that’s all,” Molly sighed with relief, having tensed up considerably when he began to speak.  “As soon as I woke up in the cottage.  It took me a bit to realise that I knew what I knew, but I was totally sure when I felt that he was _like_ Jim, but he wasn’t _the_ Jim.”

Sherlock’s expression soured slightly at the mention of her ex, but he only continued to say with studied nonchalance, “So, his attempts of calumny through the damning footage…”

Molly shrugged, although the way her eyes darted away from his indicated there were shades of doubt there.  “Useless, really.  I’m...that is to say, I’ve always known that you do bad things; it was just a little startling to actually see it, you know?  It’s a bit like how one enjoys sausages, but it’s best not to view the sausage-making process.”

Sherlock didn’t quite know how to take the comparison between himself and processed meats, and wisely said nothing.

“I just thought it would work to my advantage if he didn’t know, and still thought me somewhat incapacitated.  Playing dumb is always safer, when one is dealing with bad guys.”

Sherlock digested her words, and then mentally reviewed all that he knew of her captivity from the live feed and the transcripts of her debriefing.  The fact that Molly had wrangled with the emotional turmoil of regaining her memories, and still had the wits about her to feign ignorance to ensure her survival with a madman, further painted a portrait of an undiscovered, unappreciated Molly Hooper.  She compartmentalised so efficiently, he saw now, and so rationally—it was entirely unlike the pathologist he knew before, who wore her heart on her tacky sleeve.

“I adore you,” he confessed, wide eyed and wondering.  Those eyes became wider when she blushed, and Sherlock learned that he had said that out loud.  Helena gave a toothless, gummy smile at her godfather for this lapse of verbal control.

With little else to say, he offered: 

“Do you want to hold her?”

Molly would have been content to admire the littlest Watson from a distance, but nodded any way, as it gave something to distract her.  She pulled herself up to sit a bit straighter, and pulled her legs up a little when he sat on her bed and handed the precious bundle over.

Helena Watson looked like a little doll, with blue eyes, button nose, and fine, dark blonde hair.  Her cheeks were constantly rosy, and she was cherubic and round, like every baby ought to be.  Holding her now, and smelling her sweet, talcum scent, prompted Molly to ask, “Who is taking care of Toby?”

Sherlock laughed lightly at her obvious associations. “Hertford.  I’m surprised Meena didn’t mention it.  You two talked for hours.”

“Having me monitored?” Molly asked sharply, though she maintained a sweet smile for Helena, who reached up for her with chubby fists. 

“No.  Well, a little.  But politely.”

“Oh, politely spied on, he says,” Molly laughed to the little girl, who giggled as well before she tried to eat her own fist. 

“No, I’m not trying to spy, per se…I just wanted to make sure you’re getting enough rest,” he explained feebly.  “Your health is very important to me.”

“No need to worry,” Molly sighed, giving a gentle kiss to Helena’s nose before handing her back, “I’m back to one hundred percent.  And that’s not an arbitrary number.”

Her smirk was mischievous, but Sherlock did not feel totally at ease.  “Molly, I just wanted to say…ehm, the thing is…I’m…”

Molly squinted at the very rare picture of an inarticulate Sherlock and felt pity.  “Sorry,” she supplied helpfully.

“Yes, well, that’s obvious,” he snapped, flushed, “I was aiming for eloquence.”

She clucked her tongue, crossed her arms, and regarded him with one, raised eyebrow.  “Do you want to try that again?  With perhaps a nicer tone?”

Dutifully shamed, Sherlock shook his head at himself.  “Even Helena’s looking at me as if she’s calling me a tosser,” he said ruefully. 

Molly sighed.  “Look, Sherlock, I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yes.  I understand.  Amnesiac Molly was novel, and interesting.  A challenge, and you do love those.  No, no, come, Sherlock.  Anything easily come by is hardly worth your time; as illustrated by your minimum difficulty requirements for your help with the Met—talk about arbitrary numbers, by the way.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain the intricate mental rubric system he used to numerically label each case, but decided against it when he saw the playful look in her eyes. 

“And you, being you, can’t help but be selfish first, and regret the consequences later.  I’ve seen first hand how long it takes for you to put someone else before yourself, and when you do, it’s quite admirable.  One could argue that selfishness is the first instinct of all normal human beings.”

“Except for you,” he was quick to point out, feeling tremendously humbled.  “You’re different, Molly.”

“Thank you,” she said primly.  “But that’s not the point.  The point is…I know you’re very sorry.”

“I am.  Very much so.  It was hypocritical and appalling and I’m fairly certain John’s waiting until all of my bruises heal to give me a new black eye.  Much deserved.”

Helena let out a random squeal, and Sherlock distractedly jiggled her soothingly as he continued.  “I want make it up to you, Molly.  Anything.  Most people say ‘anything’ and hardly mean it, but with my connections and funds, I can almost give literally anythi—“

“Delete Crenton Cleaners,” she ordered softly.

He stilled abruptly, and Helena let out a disappointed grunt at that.  “Pardon?”

“Delete it.  From your mobile and from your mind.”

“Molly, you have to understand, I don’t keep the number for—“

“I don’t care what excuse you tell yourself.  I’m sure it’s very good, and I’m sure there are other means to accomplish whatever it is you think you need Crenton Cleaners for.  Sometimes you forget, Sherlock, that I’m a doctor, and I understand medical conditions very well.  I know you’re not ‘cured,’ whatever that means these days.  I know that the thought of drugs occurs to you at least once a day, if not more, in ways so casual that you barely notice it.  I know that you ought to delete Crenton Cleaners, because if you continue to deem yourself too superior for temptation, the wax in your feathers will melt again, and there might be nobody to save you from your fall next time.  So please.  Not for me, but for yourself.  Delete Crenton Cleaners.”

Sherlock watched her inscrutably for a few minutes, before he wordlessly handed Helena off and pulled his phone out of his inner breast pocket.  He pressed the necessary buttons, slightly angling the screen so that all three of them could see his actions, before putting it away again.  He made no show of any mental deletion, although when she asked about it, he nodded firmly.  Then Molly leaned forward and relinquished Helena once more, as the girl was growing fussy, and fussy babies made her nervous. 

“How can you sit there, after all you’ve been through since Tuesday, and worry about my addiction?” he asked quietly as he tried to pacify the girl.

She shrugged.  “I’m ‘different,’ I suppose.  How different after this particular trial will remain to be seen,” Molly laughed to herself. 

“It’s something I’d like to learn myself,” he offered, rising off the bed to pace a bit, hoping that would placate the infant.  “If you’ll have me.”

Molly was quiet for so long that he was forced to look up from Helena’s blank, drooling face, and saw that his pathologist was fiddling with the hem of her blanket, and biting at her bottom lip nervously.  “I dunno Sherlock.   You have to admit…if one of us had had a condom,” here she said the last word in a half whisper, with a cautious look at Helena, “you would have done something very bad.”

“Yes, I know, and believe me, I’d have regretted it.  I was half regretting it when I walked into the room, but sometimes I just—I can’t help myself Molly.  Poor impulse control, or discipline, what have you.  Also, I’m not generally one for self-denial.  I’ve never been.  It’s only an absurd metabolism that keeps me from being as fat as Mycroft, for I eat whatever I want and used to smoke as much as I want, and—“

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re rambling,” she pointed out gently.  “And I’ve already known about your faults.  They don’t turn me off.”

Helena was becoming more vocal with her unhappiness, and Sherlock did not have much time to explain himself further.  “That’s debatable.  But, Molly, know this:  That morning, before John came—I didn’t want to _sleep with you_ ,” here he also whispered, as talking about such things around a baby felt weird, despite her lack of comprehension, “because I saw it as an opportunity to fool you, or to win some novel challenge.  I wanted to because you were you—the real you, I thought, and not some odd, awkward, nervous version of you that only seems to exist in my presence.  But now that you have you become yourself again, once more—oh hell, your tautology was contagious,” he finished, totally dismayed with himself.

Molly giggled but Helena flat out wailed, most likely hungry or needing changing.

“I’m going to rid myself of this trouble and then I’m going to debrief with Mycroft’s Merry Morons,” he said in fond exasperation.  At her puzzled expression, for she knew that the rest of them had been debriefed ages ago, he added, “I was procrastinating.  May I return, when I’m done, without the little cabbage to negotiate my welcome?”

“You may, but to an empty room, I’m afraid.  Mary said that she’s arranged for us to catch a ride back home on Mycroft’s hired private plane very soon.  Otherwise the jobsworth will have us fly commercial, and Mary wasn’t having that.”

“Well, I do hope that it returns, for if not then that means that I will be flying commercial,” Sherlock said in frowning concern, and dodged Helena’s violent swings at his chin. 

“So you have to stay long?”

“Just to take a look at the cottages with Lestrade and John; we don’t trust the local authorities, naturally, to process the scenes.  But I should be back within a few days.  And you…”

“I’m taking a few days off, to recover and watch sappy romantic films in my pyjamas.”  Molly was adorably bashful as she shrugged.  “I think I’ve earned something of a holiday to myself, even if I just stay home.  So I’ll just see you later, yeah?”

Molly inwardly winced at her abrupt dismissal, but it was necessary.  She needed to stop the growing awkwardness, and she also needed Sherlock to take away the painfully loud baby. 

“Right,” Sherlock agreed, and absently swooped down to—

God, what was he doing?  Molly wondered in alarm, and jerked her head back.  As she saw Sherlock’s eyes dim with equal surprise and then disappointment. 

Oh.  OH.  He was going to kiss her goodbye!  What, did he think that all the woolly explosions and impulsive kisses erased the horrid things he had done to her in the last week?

“Actually…yes,” Sherlock answered, somewhat sheepishly.  Molly’s eyes widened when she realised she had said that aloud. 

We’ll just blame the meds on that slip, she thought uncomfortably.   

He cleared his throat.  “A miscalculation,” he deduced needlessly, straightening before heading out.  “Well.  I’ll just…see you when I return.”  Sherlock lingered awkwardly just in the door way, not wanting to leave despite Helena’s tantrum.  “Don’t be alarmed if things are amiss in your flat; they had people sweep through to clear the surveillance equipment.”

“Right,” she replied quickly, desperately wanting this stilted moment to end.  

“And I really am tremendously sorry—“

“Sherlock, I know—“

“No, you don’t understand.  It’s undeniably terrible to chuck a weighty microscope out a window and onto a woman’s head, but I’m sorry to say that I’m a little bit grateful I was so careless; otherwise, I’d have never have met the real you, and the real you was very nice to meet.  Good bye.”

He even lifted Helena’s uncooperative arm to make a little wave for her as well before turning down into the hall.  Molly blushed, bit her lip, and rose to begin readying for the journey back. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So?” 

“So?” Molly parroted back, although she knew exactly what Mary meant by that one, leading syllable.

Miraculously, the Watson baby was sleeping, apparently too tired to be bothered by the change in cabin pressure.  Molly eyes shifted from the infant to “Anthea,” who was some kind of colleague of Sherlock’s brother.  She was busy making rapid movements with her stylus on an official looking tablet. 

“Oh don’t mind her,” Mary encouraged with a bright smile.  Really, for an acquaintance, Mary Watson was far too invested in her personal life.  Then again, anybody who knew Sherlock would be understandably curious about his uncharacteristic foray into romance.

“Really, don’t mind me,” Anthea assured them both when she felt their eyes on her.  “I’m far too busy to eavesdrop on such trivialities.”

Molly wrinkled her nose in offense, and stifled a giggle when Mary childishly stuck her tongue out before they resumed their conversation.

“There’s nothing to say,” Molly tried half-heartedly, glancing out the window.  “I hurt my head.  And then I hurt my head again.  In the interim, Sherlock’s been purely…Sherlock.”

“Ooh,” they heard Ms. Assistant mutter ruefully, but when they both turned to see if she was reacting to their conversation, those prettily made up eyes were glued to the figures on the screen. 

“That bad, eh?” Mary teased, and Molly shrugged.  “Then again, it couldn’t have been too bad, considering…”

“I suppose it was a matter of perspective,” Molly sighed, finally giving in.  “If Sherlock finally pulled his head out of his arse to see that I am a wonderful, attractive woman, does it matter that he did so whilst pretending that he hadn’t exploited me for years so that he could try to get a leg over in my amnesiac state?”

“Now, when you say exploit…”

Molly blinked, but remembered that Mary was a fairly recent addition to their scene, and so would be unfamiliar with the way Sherlock tore her confidence to shreds with just a few sentences about her appearance, uncaringly commandeer her home, and repeatedly ordered her to carry out menial chores simply because he felt himself too important to do them himself.  Her love life, her professional endeavours, and her self-esteem suffered for years because she believed all three things were worth sacrificing for such a handsome genius. 

Molly gave her the briefest summary she could manage—which, it had to acknowledged, was still pretty pathetic—finishing with, “…and he didn’t even pay to replace my mobile after it fell into the Thames because of his bleedin’ samples!”

A pause.

“Blimey,” Mary breathed.

“Yeah, that’s not on,” they heard snorted from the across the aisle.

“Anthea!” Mary scolded.  The government worker jumped, grinned guiltily, and stood to relocate herself to the cockpit.

“So…when you say ‘attempted leg over’…?”

Molly cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “Really, Mary?  That’s the next part you focus on?”

“Sorry, love, but in the little time I’ve known Sherlock, it’s hard to picture him setting his mind on any task and not completing it.”

“Fair point,” Molly admitted.  “But yeah, it was an attempt only.  Though, let me tell you, it wasn’t for want of trying, that manipulative, seductive, strong…”  Mary felt compelled to clear her throat pointedly when Molly got lost in her Sherlock-related memories and adjectives.  “Bastard,” she finished firmly.  “He’s a right bastard, Mary.  If there had been protection on hand, he would have taken advantage without hesitation.”

“Hmm, he usually doesn’t give so much thought to safety,” Mary noted. 

“I asked him, Mary, I asked him twice if there was anything that should have prevented the snogging and the sex, and he denied it twice!  It’s like that Jesus-Peter-crowing rooster thing!”

“Except even more important,” Mary mocked her solemnly.  At Molly’s scowl, she added, “Then again, we would consider a cadaver a sound reason not to bring Helena to a crime scene, and Sherlock would not even remotely see the problem.  He has different definitions from us.”

“That…sounds bizarrely like something Sherlock said,” Molly muttered resentfully.

Mary shrugged.  “I’m very good at reading people.”

“Yeah?  And what, in the book of Sherlock, does it say about his methods of courtship?  Seduce first, pretend to repent later?”

“Molly,” Mary sighed and leaned forward so that she might speak a bit more quietly.  Considering this was Mycroft’s plane, Molly belatedly realised that that was a wise precaution.  The pathologist leaned forward as well to hear her.  “If Sherlock was pretending, then there was no reason for him to put on the show he did in your flat after your abduction.”

Molly chewed at her lip as she considered this.  “What exactly did he do?”

“Out of respect to his privacy, I won’t go into the details—“

“Sherlock’s privacy gets heaps more respect than anybody else’s,” Molly muttered under her breath.

“But I will say that he was definitely not acting like a man who lost a potential shag.  It was more like a man who had lost his mind,” Mary finished gently.  “He didn’t know how to function when he thought you had died.  Judging by everybody’s reaction, nobody had ever seen him so distraught.  Not even Mycroft.”

Molly was ready to contradict when something in the blonde’s expression told her that she was truly, scarily good at reading people.  And, she realised, probably very good at manipulating people as well.  That was probably a very handy trait to have in her line of work.  Nurses dealt with all sorts of difficult people who had to be influenced into cooperation.

And Watson was good at it.  To hear that Sherlock, unshakeable Sherlock, had been rendered useless because of her possible demise weighed heavily on Molly’s mind.  Until this escapade, she had come to think of him as some kind of invulnerable superhero.

“I didn’t mean to give you such heavy thoughts,” Mary said apologetically.  Molly absently returned her small smile, even though she suspected that the woman was lying through her teeth, and remained quiet for the rest of the journey home. 

When they dropped Molly off in the shared company car, she was a little bit lost.  Oh she waved to Anthea and Mary, and did not mind when neither waved back, for Anthea was busy texting and Mary was trying to placate a fussy Helena, but after it was gone, Molly bit her lip in indecision.

Before she left the car, Mycroft’s right hand woman had given her a small, brown leather pouch.  In it was a set of keys and a new mobile, which was to be expected.  Even if they had had a chance to get her old one from Moriarty, they all needed new ones, since he apparently had staked his eyes into every piece of technology in their lives so effortlessly.  Thankfully, all of her contacts were still there, and she texted her arrival to Sherlock, Meena, and her family per their requests.  Meena invited herself over, despite all of Molly’s refusals.

On her way up, she checked with all her neighbours, who were all happy to see her alive.  Hertford’s girlfriend had a left a tin of biscuits on her welcome mat.  Molly bent to retrieve it with a smile, stood, and then promptly frowned.

There had been five keys on the ring Anthea handed her, and she had initially thought it had been a surplus of copies.  But now Molly saw there were three locks on her door, which looked a bit odd…

She poked at it.  Yep, it was steel, but painted to look a bit like all the neighbours’ doors.  In fact, the entire casing was reinforced steel, and she sighed tiredly before unlocking all three locks and entering.

A chirp startled her, and she looked up to see a square piece of plastic on the top corner of her door, and a matching box on the door jamb.  When she fully closed it experimentally, a pleasant chirp sounded again, and a text message vibrated in her pocket to say:

The code is 01189998819991197253.-SH

It was from Sherlock.  She frowned, and would have replied, if he also hadn’t sent:

You have to enter it into the pad mounted in your bedroom within 45 seconds of entering, or a klaxon will sound.-SH

Swearing, she ran to her room and found the number pad next to her bed.  Then she went back to her front door, and saw that, in addition to the three locks one saw from the outside, there were two deadbolts beneath them.

How’d you know as soon as I walked through my door?  You aren’t spying on me with cameras, are you?-MH

No, don’t be silly.  I suppose Anthea failed to inform you about the new security measures.-SH

She thought about it.  That dazzlingly efficient assistant had told her something during the ride over, but Molly only pretended to listen as she took in the views. 

It’s a bit overkill.  And why not my birthday as the code?  Or Toby’s birthday.-MH

Because those are easily discovered and the point is not to make it easy for intruders.  There’s an app for the security system on your mobile.  Learn it.-SH

Molly replied childishly and then almost prepared for a lie in before remembering she was meant to spend her afternoon with her uninvited best friend.  She headed to her room to tidy a bit and was surprised to find a man’s wrinkled suit jacket on her pillow.  Molly lifted it and gave it a cautious sniff—Sherlock.  It smelled like the dressing gown he had thrown onto her head the night of the fire.  He must have been here, she thought as she set it on her chair, in my room while they figured out how to rescue me.

The thought cheered her, which seemingly summoned him, for Sherlock sent another message, asking,

What does a colon and capital P mean?-SH

Molly giggled to herself as she heard a knock at the door.  She rose, texting back before she peered through the peephole to see Meena waiting anxiously.  She had two sacks, seemingly full of biscuits and crisps.

It’s me sticking my tongue out at you, you ignoramus.-MH

Yes it was immature, but Molly was comfortable in carrying on her brazenness with Sherlock.  Little smart thoughts had occurred to her in the past when conversing with him, but she had repressed them in fear of turning him off.  Now, it didn’t matter.

Molly almost regretted letting Meena in, as the mere sight of her made her best friend burst into tears and hug her in an uncomfortably tight embrace.  The pathologist gamely endured it all, from Meena’s approval of her new security to her unusually warm praise of Sherlock and his team.  But Molly said nothing when Meena hinted that that silver fox Lestrade would be a good match for her as they settled in Molly’s bed for wine, biscuits, and trashy television.

She could only imagine what Sherlock would have said at that.  When Meena was distracted in the kitchen, Molly checked her mobile. 

He only sent back an eight, three equal signs, and then a capital D.  Molly bit back a laugh and would have left it alone when Sherlock suddenly also texted: 

John advised me to send that one.  Grendel suggests ‘emojis’?-SH

Ah, so having exhausted modern G names, Sherlock was moving to the archaic. 

Tell GREG emojis are too easy.  Good night Sherlock.-MH

It’s only 17.14.-SH

I’m busy.  Good night.-MH 

It was hard enough paying attention to Meena and the gossip programme whilst learning the functions of the security app on her phone.  Keeping up communications with others would be too much.  Mary texted that she wanted to come and visit, but Helena was choosing this time to be difficult, and refused to be left with a child minder again.  Greg and Mike sent emails expressing their happiness for her safety.  It made Molly feel very loved.

It had taken a rotten head injury and even more rotten kidnapping to do it, but Molly glad to be reminded of how much she enjoyed her life, despite its flaws.  No, she wasn’t married, as she always pictured she’d be at this age, but what did that matter?  She had a career she loved and was ready to jumpstart, she had friends whose quality more than made up for quantity, and she had her health—speaking of which, she really ought to sign up for a gym or something, considering how winded she got during her adventures. 

And she now had the affection of a man whose eyes had previously seen everything except her potential as a girlfriend.  It was a peculiar feeling she had when she came to Sherlock.  Now that she had the time, she reviewed everything that happened between them in the past few days, and realised that her mum had been right—not that she’d tell her.  She hadn’t really known Sherlock, not as well as she thought any way.  She didn’t know how self-aware he had been of his own failings, she didn’t know that he could carry on a silly debate about trifles for hours, and she didn’t know that he could be a total moron to achieve physical satisfaction, just like any other man.  Part of her was impatient for him to come back, feeling that she had waited for years for him and it was high time she get her prize for being so good.  But mostly, she was grateful for this break.  They could settle back into their regular selves, and regular lives, and then decide, once all the excitement and novelty was gone, how they should proceed.

“What’s that?” Meena asked, eyeing Sherlock’s forgotten jacket on her chair.  Molly didn’t say anything, only blushing, and that was answer enough.  “I do hope you know what you’re getting into,” was all her friend added, both amused and concerned.

“Considering how much I want to accomplish professionally,” Molly hedged with feigned disinterest, “maybe romance isn’t in the cards right now.”

Toby purred contentedly at that idea.

 

* * *

 

 

It was bad luck that Molly accidentally went on a date the next day.

Most of her morning was spent chatting with a bevy of concerned loved ones on her phone, and so it was well after lunch before she had a chance to do some shopping.  She was at the grocer’s, eyeing the mangoes, and a shopper next to her had picked up a papaya from the adjacent stall before holding it at arm’s length away from him and booming in a ridiculous voice,

“I’ve come to conquer you all!”

Molly jumped at the loud voice, much more than the situation warranted, and the large bloke laughed and set it back down.  “Sorry!  Didn’t mean to scare you!”

“No, no, it’s just…I’m just a bit jumpy, is all.  Too much coffee this morning,” Molly lied with a polite smile, and would have given up on the mangoes to move away when he picked up his fruit again. 

“It’s just, with these little dimples and marks there, don’t it look like an angry little papaya?” the stranger pointed out laughingly in his Northern accent.

Molly peered at the misshapen fruit, and giggled lightly.  “Yeah, it does.  It’s not fit to sell, really.  I’m surprised it made it out here.”

“It’s not?”  The man looked in bafflement at his choice, and Molly studied him carefully.  He was large, but not excessive; built more like a rugby player who’s missed a season or two and had gotten a bit doughy in the meantime.  His close cropped hair was pure black with a few grey strands, his large eyes were a friendly hazel, and his nose was a bit crooked from past injuries.  He was fair, like her, but was more freckled than not, and looked to be about her age. 

More importantly, he did not feel like a villain, in the same way the Professor had. 

He was still talking in an easy, relaxed way that made anyone feel instantly comfortable.  “I’m trying to eat healthier, so I figured plants would be a good place to start.  What’s wrong with this one then?”

“Well,” Molly said, and plucked it from his hands to squeeze it gently, “It’s too soft.  But you can tell by the colour alone that it’s overripe.  You want one that’s mostly yellow, but a little green if you don’t want to eat it right away…Like that one, there.”

“Cheers,” he said, pleased.  “Do you mind walking me through the lot of them?  I’m crap at this.”

Having nothing on and feeling sorry for the man—Adam, she learned after introductions—she happily assisted, tolerating his unusual habit of giving the plants dramatic histories and over the top personalities.  Each one had a hilarious voice and, before long, she was forced to participate as well.

“Come on, Molly,” Adam cajoled, holding a rather fed-up looking piece of ginger.  “Are you going to take that cheek from a rhizome?”

Molly sighed and looked around helplessly.  Finally choosing an onion, she used it to say, “Adam, if you don’t stop playing with your food, I will make summon the four horsemen of the apocalypse to break your telly just as a match gets to a good part.”

Adam, dutifully chastened, set the ginger down with a faint look of alarm.  “I didn’t think the onion had that in her.”

“I have hidden layers,” Molly said dryly with her own vegetable before belatedly chuckling at her unintentional pun.  Adam joined her and even did that odd thing where he explained her own joke to her, which somehow made it funnier to Molly.  They both ended up gasping for air and wiping away tears before he straightened and offered his large, rough hand as a greeting.

“Right.  The surname’s Brandt, and I’ve just finished my PhD in Animal Cognition, so I’m a bit out of practise talking to humans.  But I’d like to take you out, or cook something with this garden I’m buying, for our second date.”

“What?  Second—were we on a date just now?”

He checked his watch.  “Two hours of food and conversation.  Sounds like a date to me.”

“Two hours!  Toby’ll kill me.”

“Ah, Toby,” Adam repeated with a resigned nod.

“Oh, don’t think that.  Toby’s my cat.  And did you say Animal Cognition?”

“Yeah!  It’s brilliant stuff.  Most of my days are spent thinking up different tests for animals, and then weeping quietly when they perform in every way but the one we predicted.”

“Jesus,” Molly moaned, rubbing her face dejectedly, “that does sound brilliant!  Ugh!”

Adam was gentlemanly enough not to comment on her seemingly negative response, despite her positive words.  “Right…and you’re a…?”

“Specialist registrar.  I cut up dead people.”

Her heart sank as Adam’s eyes lit up with glee.  “Honest to god?  You’re not pullin’ my leg?”

“I suppose you find it cool?”

“Of course I find it cool!”  Here, Molly made a noise that one usually associated with medieval torture, and Adam frowned.  “I’m sorry, am I not supposed to find it cool?”

“No, that’s not it.  It’s just…where were you three weeks ago?!”

“Like, geographically…or philosophically…?” Adam tried, a bit at sea.

“Three weeks ago, I would’ve welcomed meeting a bloke like you whole heartedly but now you turn up, all interesting and funny and fit, and I’m not quite available!  Damn you universe!”  Molly shook her fist menacingly at the ceiling, and Adam blinked a few times at the same ceiling and frowned.

“But, I thought that Toby was a cat…?”

“Oh he is, but there’s this man and he’s…”  Molly just barely managed to censor herself, just in case this guy knew of Sherlock.  “A total arse and god you’re nice!  Ugh!”

Adam, being the epitome of a perfect man he apparently was, took pity on her, and pulled out his wallet.  After a few seconds of searching within the folds, he pulled something out for her.  “Look, I don’t know how things can get so complicated in three weeks, but just in case you find yourself complication-free, here’s my info.”

Molly miserably accepted the business card and read it briefly.

“Don’t…ah, yeah, don’t mind that part where it says I’m a professional dickhead.  It was a gift from me dad.  Not too fond of PhDs in Animal Cognition, parents,” Adam laughed quietly.  She slipped the card into her back pocket with a sad smile.

“It was absolutely lovely meeting you,” Molly told him mournfully.

“Likewise.  I’ll go slink off and nurse my wounds with photosynthetic nutrition now,” he chuckled sheepishly and walked off.

“You’ve got to pay first,” Molly pointed out hesitantly and he nodded, even further embarrassed, and switched direction.

Molly stomped back to the mangoes and chose two.  They had been priced a bit dear but after that monumental disappointment she felt that she deserved it.

 At home, she angrily sliced at them whilst a disapproving Toby hopped onto the counter to sniff at her fruit curiously.  Molly, distractedly shooing him away, let her hand slip in the juicy cheek and swiftly cut the fleshy pad of her thumb.

“Owww,” she moaned grumpily, sucking on the skin so that the coppery taste of blood swirled with tropical sweetness in her mouth.  Of course, she heard her ring tone go off, and she went and fetched her phone from the depths of her purse.  “Hewwo?” Molly barked.

“Have not recent events taught you the danger of conversing with strangers?”  Sherlock said in greeting.  He sounded different, bereft of the playful warmth that enriched his voice of late.  In fact, he sounded as if he reverted to pre-incident Sherlock.

“What?” she mumbled eloquently around her cut.  Molly was weighing fetching a plaster against sitting down and finishing the film she started this morning before she had been barraged with calls.  Right, she decided as she grabbed her plate of mango chunks and headed to her couch, historical romance it was.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to be a little more discerning in new friends, Molly, considering how very bad you are at judging characters.”

“Considering I rejected him to protect whatever it is I have with you, yes, I’d say I’m the worst at judging characters,” Molly snorted as she restarted the DVD player.  Then she paused it just as quickly.  “Wait—you _are_ spying on me!”

“What did you even discuss for two hours—“

“Never you bloody mind what we discussed!  You lied!  You said you weren’t!”

“I said that I was not spying on you through cameras,” he sniffed.  “And ‘spying’ is the wrong term.  My homeless network is ensuring your safety from afar, and they tell me when there are potential dangers.”

“You.  Are.  Spying.  You—you—oh, I’ve run out of words to describe you!”

“You could turn to the Americans for inspiration.  I’m told ‘douche nozzle’ is trendy, though I can’t fathom why, seeing as it basically means a spigot or shower head.”

Against her will, Molly laughed, although she tried hard to regain her glower soon after.  “Disregard that.  I’m still angry.”

“Of course you are.  But be honest, Molly, part of you has some warm, fuzzy feelings inside that I’m going to such lengths to ensure your safety.”

Well, that was true, but she’d rather be quartered before she admitted it.  Besides, it would do no good to encourage him when he crossed boundaries. 

“Wouldn’t Mycroft have some sort of security measures in place?” she asked logically as she watched Toby sniff at her discarded ankle socks on the floor.

“Naturally, but mine are better.  Anybody with half a brain would be able to spot Mycroft’s employees straight away.  Mine blend easier, and are often purposely ignored.”

Molly narrowed her eyes and walked over to her window, perusing the milling pedestrians.  She did not live on a very busy street, but there were often enough people about to feel safe.  There was a strolling policeman, a few chatting shop owners, a dog walker, shoppers, truants…aha.

“Wait, Sherlock,” she advised sweetly and set the phone down on her sill, purposely not pressing the “Hold” button.  She pushed the window open and flagged the policeman down.  Toby normally would have jumped at the chance to escape, but he was busy pushing his face into her sock.

“I’m sorry to bother you sir,” Molly began nervously, and the portly man assured her it was no trouble as he approached, “but that thin man on the corner, over there?”  She pointed to where Billy Wiggins was too caught up in some change a passerby had given him to notice this sudden attention.  “He’s been saying some very lewd things to me and my female neighbours.  I wouldn’t tell you with this at all except he’s recently been offering to buy our used pants, and I worry about the younger ones, you know.”

The mustached bobby flushed angrily at the thought of such a miscreant roving his streets, and he at once set off to scare him off.  Billy was running within minutes.

“That was unnecessary,” Sherlock growled when she resumed the conversation. But she could tell by his tone that he was slightly impressed.

“Admit it; you’re grinning, a bit,” she goaded as she curled up on the couch and restarted the film for the nth time.  Molly winced when Toby, a bit blinded by the sock covering most of his snout and eyes, walked into the side of the television stand. 

“If I’m grinning—which I’m not—it’s only because I’ll see you very soon.”  Molly blinked at that.  He sounded…sweet?  That was weird.  Despite her fantasies of a wooing and chivalrous Sherlock, Molly found that her feelings immediately turned to unease rather than delight when faced with gallantry from the detective; no doubt due to his past transgressions of manipulative flirting.

“How soon?”

“I estimate a day, a two at most.  John and Lestrade should be returning today, but Mycroft and I are screening the entire hospital staff and police force to weed out the corrupted workers.  Then we’ll have to work with their government to have them sacked.”

“Hmm.  Aren’t there other people who can do that sort of thing?” Molly tilted her head as sock-Toby then tripped over her shoes to fall face first on the rug.

“Yes, but not as well as us.  What’s that you’re watching?  It sounds distracting.  Turn it off.”

“A Room with a View.  It’s the pond scene.”

“Don’t care.  I can tell you’re distracted by the pauses.  Stop the film.”  She didn’t want tell him she had been more distracted by Toby, who, upon contemplating life for a few minutes after falling on the rug, managed to remove the sock on his own when he stood.  She feared Sherlock would tell her to rid herself of such an adorable, moronic cat. 

Molly sighed.  Of course, when she envisioned her future romance with Sherlock, she did tend to leave out his propensity to demand attention at all times.  He was impolite and greedy, and if they were to embark on…whatever this was, she would have to be patient as he learned how to be an understanding adult.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he informed her, sounding a bit concerned.

“Am I?  Shall I mute my mind too?”

“If I had thought such a thing possible, I would have submitted that request years ago,” he replied idly.  “Oh, I have to do something.”

Not even a good bye.  Just nothing.  Molly wished mobiles still had dial tones, so she knew when she was rudely hung up on, instead having to confusedly look at her screen to confirm it. 

“Git,” she muttered.

 

* * *

 

 

Cemeteries, in Molly’s estimation, were the most beautiful places on earth.

She supposed it was an unusual opinion, but then, given her occupation, nobody would be surprised to find her strolling through Highgate Cemetery with a peaceful smile on her face.  It had been her father who had taught her the beauty of graveyards.  She hadn’t known it as a child, but the main reason they had strolled amongst the dead rather than with the living in public parks had been because he disliked the judgmental looks from the other parents when he would swear, smoke, and have her and Julie help pick the winning horse from the daily racing forms.

She had already finished her visit with her father, but idly wandered amongst the neglected headstones, observing that her surroundings were more ivy and trees than man-carved markers.  In the center of the cemetery, it was easy to pretend to be alone in the world, lost amongst the shadowy woods.  The paved path grew narrow, then broken, then faintly covered by dirt and grass as the air became stiller and heavier with the bated breath of those souls laid to rest.  Or “to sleep,” as most of the nineteenth century memorials liked to say. 

Molly paused, tilting her head as she considered her path.  In this part, there was no longer a set way to walk; one could only step on the uneven graves and apologise to those tread upon.  She nearly tiptoed on the corner of a child’s grave—and there were so many around that time in London—when she realised a large spider had made its wide web in that corner, and so she settled for hopping across the mother’s plot when a twigged snapped behind her.

She did not shriek, but only just barely as she whirled and tripped slightly amongst the ivy. 

“Oh, goodness, sorry,” she told Elmer Tufton, 1801-1828,  Much Beloved beneath her feet as Sherlock helped her regain her balance. 

He raised an eyebrow but did not point out the obvious futility of her sincere apology. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to speak to you face-to-face just yet,” Molly informed him with attempted formality.

Sherlock’s eyes slowly slid left to right, as if searching for somebody else to point out the obvious.  When no man alive volunteered, he decided to speak.  “Er…it rather sounds as if the decision has been made…?” he commented carefully. 

Against her will, the corners of Molly’s lips quirked up.  Sherlock was terribly funny when he tried to speak without offending.  Besides, he did have a point. “If you’ve been following me, you’re awfully slow.  Been here for ages.”

Sherlock smiled slightly as he looked down at her.  The large, misshapen green knitted hat rather hid most of her head from his admiring eyes, but he supposed it was needed considering the chilly mist coating them.  “I knew you visit where your father was planted when you find yourself with a conundrum.  I lost you on the tube, and assumed you got off at Highgate.”

“Easy mistake,” she sighed, gently disengaging herself from his touch on her back and walking around him towards the brave little path.  “Best to get off at Archway.  Shorter walk.  Plus, you get to see the Talking Cat, and that’s always nice.” 

Molly spoke idly, eyes focused on the damp ground, but she knew that pulling away from him had hurt his feelings.  He was unused to being denied anything, but as her dad told her—or at least, what she imagined what her father would say—just an hour earlier, it wasn’t her task to both raise and date him.  That was too much of a burden to put on anyone (plus it sounded a bit naughty).

“Indeed,” he murmured, following after a stilted pause.  “Are we still in London?”

“Yes, technically, though it’s just off most tourist maps.”  Molly chewed at her lip as she readjusted her hat.  “When did you arrive? In England, I mean.”

“Just.”

“And is your flat done?”

“I don’t know.  I came straight to yours, but learned you had just gone so…”

Well.  That was terribly flattering, but also mildly irksome, as it meant he was still having her watched.  Molly sighed.  “You’ll want to talk, I suppose?  There are benches here and there.”

“Yes, but there are bound to be tourists soon and I’d rather avoid them.  Terribly ironic they charge to see Marx, isn’t it?”

“Pffft,” Molly scoffed, more at ease with such a familiar topic, “There has to be something done to afford maintenance!  Besides, it isn’t as if he’s the only one to see here!  These Marxists fail to realise that some are totally fine paying a small fee to see Adams, Eliot, or Cliffordson.”

“Or Hooper,” he added small grin.  Molly released a huff of a laugh as she stopped at the fairy garden and eased down to sit precariously on the stone border.

“Well, I would pay if it was required of me,” she agreed, but showed him her grave pass.

“Ah.  I vaulted over from the park.”

Molly’s eyes widened.  She was certain there were cameras.  “You didn’t?”

“I did.”  Smug bastard.

“Sherlock, I would have given you the four quid if you’re that skint,” she teased.  She would have said more if she hadn’t been distracted by Sherlock’s obvious reluctance to find a seat near her.  At first, Molly took it personally, but saw it was a matter of Sherlock being fastidious, and reluctant to make contact with the moist grass and foliage.  When he clearly intended to find purchase on a low, worn down headstone (Mary Porter, who went to sleep in 1901), she made an involuntary noise of protest, and he tightened his lips in dissatisfaction.  Finally, because it was getting quite ridiculous how long it was taking, he carefully settled on the border next to her, with an obvious grimace to the condition of his coat.  Molly giggled slightly at his awkward position, for his longer legs bent up further than hers, making him look like an ill-at-ease crab.

“So,” he said, still working to smooth away the distaste from his sharp features, “what did Albert Hooper say?”

Molly pulled away slightly so she could observe him with narrowed eyes.  “You’re not going to take the Mickey out of me for seeking advice from the dead?”

He had been ready to spew outrage in feigned innocence, but thought better of it upon spying her shrewd gaze.  “Well, I have privately in the past, but my newly shifted perspective of you has rendered me more sympathetic.  It’s no different from speaking to the different characters in my Mind Palace—as long as you understand it’s not your actual father who’s doling out advice…”

His baritone voice trailed off so that it sounded rather like a question.  Instead of being insulted, Molly was strangely complimented.  There was the small possibility that she was silly enough to believe in supernatural communication, but the ever pragmatic Sherlock Holmes was still interested in pursuing her. 

“You didn’t answer the question,” he pointed out with a faint trace of Sherlockian impatience.    

Molly heaved a sigh.  “Well…we worked out a few things.  One—you’ve a great deal to learn, but I haven’t the patience or desire to be both your partner and your teacher.  So there won’t be instances of you being an absolute prat and us writing it off as ‘Oh, Sherlock doesn’t know better.’”

Sherlock spent a few minutes digesting this.  “Somewhat valid.  But I’m not totally inexperienced, Molly.  You forget I am a great observer and mimicker of human kind.”

“Hmm, well that’s true,” she conceded, though that skilled mimicry privately worried her a bit, as it sounded vaguely sociopathic.  “And two, I was being a terrible tease the day you rescued me from the Professor.  Sorry about that.”

“Oh, rubbish,” he dismissed this with a way of his hand.  “Sheep guts, twins, of course you were addled.”

“Ye-e-es,” Molly reluctantly agreed with a fascinating blush warming her cheeks.  Sherlock looked on with growing interest as she focused on her wellies.  “There was that.  But I was also…a bit jealous.”

The consulting detective straightened with a thoroughly confused expression.  His eyes blindly flickered amongst the silent headstones as he reviewed that eventful day.  “Of…Moriarty?”

Molly giggled and shook her head.  “Of me—er, well, younger me.  I spent years trying to capture your attention, and then in less than twenty four hours with young Molly, you had your hand up her—my shirt.  I hate that—I dunno.  It’s silly, of course, because I’m her, and she’s me, but it rather felt like you fell in love—liness!” She corrected herself quickly, and with an undeniable note of panic, “Um, yes, fell in loveliness with a younger woman.”  Molly took a deep breath and shook her head.  “Oh god,” she muttered, dropping her face into her open hands.

He laughed, and it was such an unusual sound, hearing his chuckles without the acidic hue of derision and scorn, that Molly raised her head and smiled genuinely at him.

“She—or Molly B, as I’ve labelled her—was a circumstance that made me look at you a second time, yes,” he agreed.  “But Molly, whilst I spent time with her, I both dreaded and missed you.  Dreaded because I knew I was cocking it up, and you’d give me a decent drubbing, but also missed, because she was lacking so much.  I’ve rushed back from Ireland because I knew what waited in London—a Molly Emmaline Hooper who is wholly herself.  Molly AB.  The perfect Molly.”

Molly blinked several times before the most beautiful smile stretched across her thin lips.  She was blushing again but this time did not look away.  Sherlock rather thought that she looked radiant, and he let out a huff of regret.

Molly, who by this time could decipher the moods of his exhalations, quickly frowned and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m spouting clichés about your beauty in my head,” he told her truthfully.  “I don’t regret admiring you, but I had assumed that, if I decided upon a foray into romance, I’d be more original about it.”

Molly tossed her head back and laughed long and loud, in a manner that was almost indecent in a graveyard. In fact, she guffawed for so long that she ended up wiping tears from the corner of her eyes, and he felt obligated to offer a handkerchief, which she waved off.

“That was well done,” she congratulated him when she settled down.  It was not the words that amused her but rather his frank and almost child-like tone.  Sherlock, quite chuffed, nodded smartly down at her.  “Let’s go back to mine to finish up though.  My bum’s going numb sitting on this.”

He stood and pulled her up with one offered hand, saying ruefully, “A brilliant idea if I hadn’t actually just escaped Mycroft’s clutches to follow you.  I suspect he has men combing the area as we speak.”

“So that’s why you vaulted over the wall,” Molly realised in amusement.  “All right.  I should’ve known you’d have more important government work to do once you returned.  Can you stop by later this afternoon?  Or in the evening, for supper?”

“I’ll be at yours by four whether or not we’re done,” he agreed immediately.  Then he hesitated, and asked in a lower tone, “Would a goodbye kiss be well-received now?”

Molly considered it and thoughtfully answered, “Yes, I think that a not-too-intense one would be—“

But she had yielded all control of the situation the moment she had said “yes,” for within a few seconds, she had been grabbed, dipped, and snogged so thoroughly that she felt alarming heat shoot within her.

Before she had recovered, she was twisted back up right and blearily opened her eyes to see Sherlock’s fleeing back.  “Don’t go fruit shopping!” were his parting words.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock ran a hand through his damp hair as he ascended the steps to Molly’s flat; the light rain had been steady since noon, with confusing pockets of sunshine mixing in simultaneously, resulting in cheery little rainbows to confound Londoners and tourists alike.  He unlocked her door and was pleased to learn by the distinct chirp that she was using the security system.

He reached in his pocket and pressed the “Off” button on the hand held remote that fit on a key chain.  They did not tell Molly about this option just yet, as she would have used it constantly instead of remembering her pass code. 

On his way to her room, where he guessed her to be considering the rest of the flat was as still as a tomb, Sherlock draped his jacket on the back of a kitchen chair and toed off his shoes.

Ireland had been irritating and unnerving.  Professor Moriarty had been simply introducing himself, in the flashiest way possible.  A family habit.

He had had the means, the money, and the connections to have thrown the game ages ago.  All he had lacked was the motivation, until now.  This one was worse than Jim, for the real James had no wish in eliminating the Holmes’ interference, and delighted when they managed to snarl his operations.  He truly found it all diverting, and, by all appearances, intended to toy with them for years. His older brother seemed to take the breach in his security personally, and Sherlock was more than happy to let the older Holmes challenge the older Moriarty if it meant he had some free time to see Molly Hooper. 

Molly’s door creaked a little as he pushed it open, but it did not matter.  She was sleeping.

Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed and tilted his head at the tableau before him.

Molly, wrapped up in a tatty plaid dressing gown, was contorted in a distinctly awkward manner, with arms and legs bent at such angles that he was reminded of discarded mannequins left in dumpsters.  She was snoring, which she did not do normally, but having a sleeping Toby stretched across her neck probably caused it.  Her hair was organised in patches, each clump wound up in tight little knots, held around—Sherlock bent a little to peer closer—yes, they were wrapped and tied by strips of paper.  Probably some new method she had been waiting to try out of a special occasion.  A case of eyeshadow and a tube of mascara lay near her hand, apparently untouched.  The sundress she wore more than a week ago lay on a chair, ready to be worn with purpose this time. 

His mind snapped out conclusions mechanically.  She had intended to pretty herself up needlessly for his arrival, but had made the mistake of taking a shower first.  Hot showers made Molly drowsy, which was why she took one to fall asleep that eventful morning of their first kiss.  Through the curling and the make-up, she had attempted to persevere through the somnolence, but adorably failed. 

“Well Sherlock,” he said to himself, “that’s yours.” 

She must have heard his self-congratulatory voice, for she stirred a little, coughed, and swatted at Toby, who lazily took just enough steps to be lying on her pillow and off of her neck.  Then she rubbed at her eyes as she sat up.  Mid-yawn, Molly realised she had company, and let out a squawk of terror.

“Oh no,” she moaned and pulled the blanket over her head.  “You’ve seen me!”

Sherlock sighed, unable to stop his smile from growing as he watched her.  “And, this may shock you, but I can _still_ see you, despite your impressive camouflage.”

“Go away,” she ordered petulantly.  From what he could see of the frantic movements from the blanket creature’s arms, Molly was undoing the paper curls.  “I’m going to live under this blanket now.”

“Unless you’ve food under there, I strongly discourage it,” he retorted, moving around to the other side.

He saw her head move left to right, before an arm moved hurriedly before her.  “Ooh!  A biscuit!”

Sherlock shooed Toby completely off the bed, and lifted one side of the blanket to join her beneath it.  “Drop that, now,” he commanded just as she was about to nibble her newfound sustenance.  “You don’t know how old it is.”

“Only a day old!  It’s biscotti,” she explained, holding it just out of reach behind her.  “It’s supposed be this hard.”

It was difficult to tell when it was a bit dim, but just enough light filtered through the thick yellow material so he could see what the paper knots did.  Now her tresses fell in gentle loose curls, reminiscent of film noir actresses (lovely, gorgeous even, but a wasted effort considering how he was most likely going to ruin the locks if they did what he strongly wished to do).  The heat under the blanket slightly pinked her cheeks, and she bit her lip nervously at having him so close.  Before he could think of doing or saying anything else, he reached forward and cradled her face with both his hands to kiss her, because she was so pretty and he had missed her so much.

There was something sweetly slaking about pressing his lips to hers in the softest way possible.  He felt as if he had been craving her for lifetimes instead of a few days.  It was irrational, but he thought that nothing could satisfy him more than when her lips gently pressed back, again and again, before her tongue darted out and licked his mouth enticingly.  Then, Sherlock had little choice but to wrap his arms more tightly around her, and promptly ravish her. 

It offended him that she had enough presence of mind to pull away simply because he had grabbed the stale biscotti behind her back and thrown it to the floor. 

 “Hey!” she protested, pushing off of him.

Sherlock, who had been lying against her pillows, had to take a few seconds to compose himself before speaking.  How could she care about a damned biscuit when they could be snogging and getting naked?

“Molly,” he assured her sternly, pulling at her wrists so that she fell forward and onto him again, just missing bashing her head against his nose by a few inches. “I will buy you a bakery.  Stop concerning yourself with that.”

She allowed him to kiss her deeply, breathlessly, before she summoned all her will power and pushed herself up.  “But it’s chocolate dipped and I don’t want Toby to get it,” she explained apologetically, rising off of the consulting detective to pluck the now dusty biscuit off the floor.  Molly spied Toby hiding under the bed, eyes dilated and bottom wiggling up as he had been ready to pounce on the treat, and tossed him out into the hall before placing the biscuit in the bin in the corner of her room.  Upon turning back to her guest, she saw that, in the short minute it had taken to accomplish these tasks, Sherlock had almost entirely disrobed.  Molly let out a giggly yelp.

“What?” he asked clad in nothing but his black cotton jockeys.  “Have I misread the situation?” He had been ready to gently lay his trousers on the post at the foot of the bed, but now paused with narrow-eyed uncertainty.

“No…yes…um…”  She pinched at her hands nervously, and could see the tell-tale signs of irritation on Sherlock’s face.  Molly felt red hot prickles dance up her spine, and she found herself standing a bit straighter. 

“The thing is,” she explained carefully as she stepped closer, “I don’t know what we should do.  Because, obviously, there are things to discuss—“

“My overprotectiveness, my dishonesty, the parameters of moving forward,” Sherlock ticked off his fingers dutifully.  “To name a few.”

“Yes,” she agreed calmly, and came to a stop next to him.  “Another thing we ought to do is fuck mindlessly.”

Now, Sherlock hadn’t been moving as she spoke, and so Molly was impressed when he seemed to become as still as a statue.  It was as if he had short circuited. 

“I can’t tell which one we ought to do first,” she added, fighting an amused smile.  “Because talking without physical release of our tension will feel just impossible, as our needs tend to distract us from normal conversation.”

He nodded solemnly.

“But to proceed with bodily satisfaction without an adult conversation about us feels irresponsible and hypocritical,” she finished, biting her lip to clamp down on a smirk. 

Sherlock considered both options seriously.  He even drew a leg up to rest his elbow on it, resting his chin in that hand; somehow, even when he was nigh nude, he did not look silly doing so. 

“That is a conundrum,” he agreed after a few minutes.  “Here are the possible outcomes:

We talk, but not very well, considering how we will be distracted by our very natural and answerable needs.

Or: we answer those needs, and then talk…yes, that sounds good.”

Then Sherlock smiled, and shrugged.  At her raised eyebrow, he rolled his eyes and said, “Oh and I suppose you have temporary feelings of irresponsibility and hypocrisy.  But, as a longtime irresponsible hypocrite, can I say, they’re easy feelings to live with?”

It was hard to remain impervious when Sherlock was doing his utmost to be charming, especially now that she knew he meant it.  Molly untied the strap of her dressing gown and let it slip off her bare shoulders and flutter to the floor.  The action felt a little dramatic, but she figured a little drama suited Sherlock just fine.

He certainly seemed pleased as she slowly, confidently tiptoed and slid her leg over him, so that she braced herself on his hips. 

“We can do both,” she suggested.  Her voice squeaked a little, because old habits die hard.  And she couldn’t quell the tremors in her hands as she slid them up his surprisingly defined upper body, over his broad shoulders, and around his neck.  From what she had seen of his bare torso in the past, Molly didn’t expect the smattering of light, coarse hairs on his chest, with a thicker patch in the middle.  She had no way of knowing until now how cool he was to the touch, how his muscles felt tensing beneath her finger tips, how his flesh of his neck shivered and twitched, ticklish, at the touch of her palms. 

It took him a few seconds to regain his composure after her simple gesture and even simpler solution, but his voice did not shake when he scoffed.  “Molly, I couldn’t concentrate on kissing you when you had one _hand_ on me.  Conversation is improbable.”

She shifted and pressed down on him with a playfully pleading look.

“But I can try,” he conceded with alacrity.  His own hands rose behind her to span the width of her, and pressed her forward so that she had no choice to meet his demanding kiss with equal fervor.  Sherlock kissed her like a man starved for touch, for human connection, lips and tongue sweeping against hers with untapped yearning.  He kissed so seriously, precisely, as if every brush of his mouth had been calculated to provoke the same electric burn through her body, shooting from the core of her and blistering outwards. 

Oh, it was so hard to breathe, let alone think, when he generously continued the feverish worship offered by his lips to her cheeks, jaw, and then throat, but somehow Molly managed to suck in great gulps of air to say, “Sherlock.  I forgive you for…before.”

“Of course you do,” he finally managed to murmur, between the licking, kissing, and sucking as he worked to the other side of her neck.  “You have too much self-respect to allow this activity, if you hadn’t.”

“And about the spying—“

“Not spying,” he corrected, nearly incomprehensible as his mouth descended to her breasts.  “I love these,” Sherlock murmured against the sensitive skin distractedly. 

“Yes, I kno-ow,” she stammered when she felt a small nip.  “Sherlock, I won’t believe you when you say you’ll stop it—“

“Clever of you,” he agreed, and she felt the words more than she heard him.  One large, rough hand massaged one breast as he adored the other, and she could feel how much they fascinated him.

“But if you don’t reduce it, at least a little when I’m having innocent conversations with strangers, I’m going to have to stop it myself.  And it will be worse than setting a policeman on them.”

He paused, and for a second, Molly honestly thought he was taking her seriously.  But then his right hand moved to join his other on her back, and slid down to securely grip her waist.  His mouth and hips surged upwards at once, to kiss her and grind her bare core against his clothed hardness. 

“Molly, Molly,” he muttered in mindless litany against her mouth and she could only groan a sound of pure, insatiable want.  Ineptly, her hands flew to his waistband, and tried to tug them down when Sherlock rolled her over so that she lay beneath him.  Hovering only a few inches above her, he quickly dispensed of his pants himself, landing eager, hot kisses on any part of her his mouth could reach.  His fingers lingered between them to trace the slit of her core.  At her encouragement, he slid one, then two between her wet folds, circling and teasing in a deliberate, slow rhythm until she was drawn to the very edge…

Sherlock pulled his hand away.  Molly made an ungracious, protesting noise that was soon quieted when he lifted himself from her and quickly settled himself between her thighs.  It was absurd to be frightened by this development, but she was; because she had dreamed that, if such an event would happen, it would have been the result of a surfeit of misdirected emotions from a near fatal disaster.  But, looking down at Sherlock’s normally gelid gaze, Molly didn’t see the unbridled heat that threatened to undo her.  Sherlock, as he always had, appeared alert, and hyper-observant, eyes trained on her face with hawk-like intensity.

Oh, it’s not fair, she wanted to petulantly protest.  It wasn’t fair that she, who had instigated this conflagration, was the only one ready to unravel her mind when he remained so composed and ready.  Everything in his taut expression said he was in control, of what he would do and how she would react.  She instantly forgot the injustice of such imbalanced power when his tongue, without hesitation, resumed the circular pattern his fingers had began, this time using his digits to slide into her with a quickening tempo.  Had she more presence of mind she might have teased him about probably researching foreplay, since he seemed to kiss, etc, by the book.  But, as his tongue pressed harder into her and he slipped another finger to brush against her sensitive walls, Molly really felt lucky just to avoid passing out. 

She wanted him to go faster, or harder, or anything because the steady, almost lazy way he pleasured her kept her at a maddening stasis, on the cusp of coming but just not quite there.  Molly even said, in what she hoped was a telling way, “Sherlock…”

He hummed in response, and whether or not he was truly acknowledging her in conversation or teasing her further, the sparking throb he caused startled Molly into an elated yelp and an instinctively tense her legs up.  She hadn’t climaxed, but Sherlock sat up in any case.   

Either he was a cruel tease or he had really bad timing.  Or, most realistically, he was unfamiliar with her preferences of foreplay since this was their first coupling, a problem easily remedied later. 

“Wait, Sherlock—“ she requested, so very close to losing her mind with lust, just as he leaned away from her and to the foot of the bed.

“No, it’s fine, I’ve got it,” he assured her, and quickly sat up to reach into the pocket of his trousers.  Sherlock faced her with a handful of condoms, tossing most onto her nightstand and then neatly tearing one open.

“No, I meant—I meant…you’re good at that,” she noticed with breathless interest, head tilted at an odd angle as he rolled the condom onto himself with one hand.

He rolled his eyes as he leaned forward, explaining, “I’m not a virgin, despite what others say.”

Molly nodded, and closed her eyes at the overwhelming sensation of Sherlock’s bare body press entirely onto hers.  No, he definitely knew what to do, she decided as his knees gently parted her legs and he settled between them. 

“But what do you want of me?” she asked, wincing as he pressed into her.

Sherlock stopped, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of her reaction or her question.  But Molly always winced, right at the beginning, no matter how prepared she thought she was and no matter the size of her partner.  At her frantic pulling of any part of him she could reach, he continued, just as precise and certain as his kisses had been.  Another man might have moved slowly, but his first thrust was measured and confidant.  Molly, engulfed in the sensation of burning, stretching and slick welcoming, whimpered and confusedly said her own name.

That did make him pause again, but this time he looked down at her with such a gentle, laughing expression she barely recognised him when she blearily opened her eyes.  “Don’t stop,” she requested softly.

He obliged, and began to move at an even, maddening tempo against her hips.  He spoke hoarsely as he stared adoringly at her.  “You stole my answer.”

“Oh god,” she gasped as he slammed against her with surprising force, only to resume the steady pace once more.  The friction was killing her in the most enjoyable way possible.  “What?”

“What I want of you.  That’s it.  Molly.  Just you.  In any way, in every way.”

“What?” she asked again, for the building, tightening coil within her was slowly consuming her every thought.  She lifted her hips to meet him with every push forward, and it was clearly crumbling his careful rhythm.

“Just you, Molly,” he told her through clenched teeth, his voice impossibly darker.  “You’re what I want.  As long as you are you, and we are together until it is no longer feasible—fuck!”

She had wrapped her legs around his hips, and had the enormous pleasure of watching him gasp from the exertion of grappling with his self-control.   God it was delicious, what his body could do to hers, and vice versa.  He was distantly glad for the light pouring through the windows, for it meant he could savour every inch of her curves, fair and glistening with sweat as they moved in time with his hips. 

“Sherlock,” she begged, clutching at his arms so tightly that her nails dug little crescents into his skin.  “Sherlock, I can’t—“  Molly didn’t know what she couldn’t, only that it simply felt impossible to be flooded in such pleasure.  Oh, it couldn’t last, she couldn’t ride this wave for so long, she couldn’t bear it…

“Just us, together,” he said into her ear, one hand on her cheek to lean her head to his mouth “until we can’t be together.  Agreed?”

Molly nodded, forgetting everything else except the inner rising, tightening, scorching…explosion of her orgasm.  Her mouth fell open to cry out but Sherlock’s lips soon covered her own, swallowing her shout with a thorough kiss.

“Oh god,” she sighed as his thrusts became more urgent and erratic, desperately seeking his own release.  There.  There it was.  Even Sherlock was human, and could not maintain his infamous lack of emotion during the chaos of sex.  She smiled as he clearly battled to control himself, his handsome features tensing and contorting through each shock of pleasure. 

He’s going to lose his mind when I show him what I can do, the pathologist thought smugly before squeezing her muscles around his length so that his hips stuttered against her.  The narrowed eyed look he gave her bordered on resentful, and she nearly laughed.  Although exhausted in almost every way, Molly slid her hands up to his shoulders so that she could pull herself forward and kiss his neck, artlessly but lovingly, until one particularly delicate lick against his pulse had him clutching her close and plunging more deeply within her.  He was speechless when he came, only pouring forth a low, deeply intimate groan into her ear.  She felt him throb inside her for a long minute, and heard his heavy breathing gradually slow to normal in her ear, and smelled his heavy, Sherlock scent mixed with their sweat.  Her view was filled by the expansive sight of his back, and her hands mapped the slick flesh greedily.  He shifted slightly under her touch, not unlike the way Toby would flex at her caring ministrations. 

Molly could have stayed, intertwined and cocooned with his body, for ages.  But soon enough his weight proved a hindrance to her breathing.  She gently patted his shoulder and he rose off of her with such a half-lidded, primitive expression on her face that Molly giggled. 

“I think I may be sleepy,” he informed her, ignoring her amusement as he rose to bin the condom in the loo.

“Sherlock, you must’ve expected this,” Molly called down the hall as she rearranged the blanket on herself.  “You’ve been running ragged for days without proper rest.”

“Yes, but I’m immune to the normal wear and tear of work,” he explained upon returning and joining her.  To her dazed surprise, he gently lifted her hand and wrapped a plaster around her thumb, where the mango cut had been, before interlocking her fingers with his own.

“Because you’re Sherlock,” Molly agreed mockingly.  She tried to resist when he reached out to pull her closer, for immediate post-sex snuggling always irritated her with the stickiness, but allowed him his cuddles when he pouted.  She even landed a tiny kiss on his jaw as he fought to keep his eyes open. 

“Exactly,” he replied around a yawn.  “I’m hungry and tired.  Neither of which are compatible with my plan to try again.”

His honest language made her stiffen slightly in alarm.  “Try?  Sherlock, I thought you could tell…that is, I definitely enjoyed that…”

“Well, hard to remain ignorant of that fact when you deafened my right ear in celebration,” he replied, oblivious to Molly’s silent vow to improve his pillow talk.  “But I should have been more attentive before seeking my own satisfaction.”  At her astonished stare, he added sincerely, “I apologise, Molly, but I was terribly impatient.  I would not be surprised if we owed your climax more to the thrill of our first time together than my own skills.”

“I—you—“  Bless!  Just when she thought she was totally accustomed to Sherlock’s candor, he went did a self-critical post-coital analysis that left her momentarily dumbfounded. 

“You can be sure I’ll be much more thorough for our second time together.  After some food.  Or perhaps a nap.  I still haven’t decided which is more needed—“

“I’ll order takeaway,” Molly declared, unabashedly keen.  “Take a little nap, and when you wake up, there’ll be food.”

She nearly stood when he caught her hand and dragged her back to his side to kiss her softly.

“Don’t spoil me,” he warned against her cheek.

“Sherlock…”

“I mean it.  And I meant everything I said a few minutes ago.  The excitement of intercourse tends to prompt people to say the most untrue things, such as ‘I love you’ and ‘You’re the best,’ but I want you to know I was sincere when I spoke of monogamy.  I’d like to continue an exclusive arrangement with you until one or both of us deem it infeasible.”  He kept his gaze fastened to her face, and so Molly knew he had seen how happy his honest (if not a little prosaic) words made her.

“We’ll give it a go,” she replied lightly, eyes twinkling at him.  “It’ll be hard, with your new nemesis and my renewed ambitions to be head of the department.  But I think it will be all right.  As long as you stay you as well, okay?  No unnecessarily sweet lines—you’ve got me, no need to chat me up—and nothing you don’t mean.  I’d rather be sincerely insulted than falsely complimented.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, for they both knew how talented he was with sincere insults.  “Noted.  Remember this moment, Molly, for the next row.”

She laughed, and crawled up a little to kiss his cheek before rising successfully from the bed this time.  “Unless somebody has another piece of lab equipment to throw at my head, I promise I won’t forget a thing.”

 

* * *

 


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! I've a few more fanfic ideas but it will probably be a while before I write them out, as I found out just before I posted Chapter 5 that I'm preggers and due in September, so I'll probably just stick to reading everybody else's Sherlolly fics for a while. Thanks so much for all the feedback and support!

* * *

 

 

As one famous, balding, possibly bisexual English playwright once said, the course of true love never did run smooth. 

There were a few blemishes in their story; Molly had forgotten to bin Adam Brandt’s business card, and its discovery weeks later stirred up much jealousy and discontent.  Sherlock had taken the liberty of cancelling her new gym membership, for he feared a change to the shape of those hips he quite enjoyed; a presumptuous action that led to a cracking row over breakfast. There were smaller, domestic issues, like how he kept using everything past their expiry date and she kept ruining his sock index.  And, of course, Professor Moriarty’s antics ruined many romantic plans. 

But there were also lovely moments.  Helena tried to eat and subsequently scratched her B*Witched discs when Mary brought her on a visit.  When he saw how upset she had been, Sherlock learned to play the songs on his violin and scared the daylights out of her by exhibiting his accomplishment early one morning.  Predictably, Sherlock had an unfortunate public row with some “experts” at the microbial symposium, who airily dismissed him as a dilettante.  Her next publication on cartilage decomposition accelerated by soil microbes so viciously skewered those scientists’ theories that their institution lost funding for six months.

A year after her amnesiac episode, they gathered their friends for an impromptu Saturday night out.  The karaoke bar—named Untrained Melody—was only half full, as the hour was early.  Thankfully she preferred that time; she was something of a purist, his Molly, and disliked it when the music was drowned out by chatter.

“Never thought I’d see you in a place like this,” Lestrade, the last to arrive, declared loudly over the invasive tune as he sat down at the large table.  He nodded his hello to Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mike, and Meena before doing a double take at Mycroft’s face.  “Same goes for you.”

_“Denkst Du vielleicht g'rad an mech—mech?—no, mich_

_Dann singe ich einen Lied für Dich”_

 “Noblesse oblige,” Mycroft retorted, somehow speaking with quiet disdain and still managing to be heard.  His lofty explanation might have been accepted if not for the exchange of mischievous grins between Holmes and Watson.

“Promised we wouldn’t sing ‘The Bastard King of England’ the next time we’re invited to some royal do,” John supplied helpfully.  Sherlock grinned and returned his attention to the singer.

“Right, so what’s your reason then?” Lestrade demanded of the younger brother. 

“She’s my partner,” Sherlock offered reasonably.  “Naturally I will indulge her more ridiculous requests for the sake of—“

“I know!  It’s to make up for forcing her to move in with you, isn’t it?” Meena, who had been wondering the same thing herself, declared triumphantly.

_“'Ne Fliegerstaffel—bloody hell—hinterher_

_Alarm zu gaben, wenk es so wär_

_Dubai war'n da am Horizont”_

“If you can scrounge up the mental effort,” Sherlock retorted absently, “you’ll recall that I magnanimously offered refuge for the homeless woman—“

“You torched her flat!” Mike pointed out, incredulous at his gall.

“I most certainly did not—“

“Fine, you conspired with her,” John clarified dismissively, gesturing to Mrs. Hudson, who was sipping her daiquiri innocently, “when she minded Toby for her and had the same ‘accident’ with the herbal soothers—“

“It _was_ an accident,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, bolstered by Sherlock’s supporting nod, and then winked at her favourite tenant.

“Everybody saw that wink,” John informed her, deadpan.  “Literally everybody at this table has eyes, and witnessed that.  It was not remotely subtle.”  Mrs. Hudson shrugged haplessly and returned her attention to her drink.

_“99 Düsenflieger_

_Jeder war ein großer Kruger_

_Hielften sich for Captain Kirk”_

“Did anybody tell Molly there’s an English version of this song?” Mary asked cheerily as she returned to the table with a cocktail for herself and a pint for her husband. 

“She knows,” Meena sighed.  “She thinks her German is good enough to pull this off.”

“But you must be making up for something,” Lestrade said doggedly to Sherlock. 

“What makes you say so?”

“Your black eye.”

Mike and Mycroft snorted into their martinis. 

“Loads of people want to punch him in the face.”

“It’s a miracle my brother doesn’t sport a butter eye on a weekly basis.”

_“Streichholz und Benzinkanister_

_It’s a fun language, isn’t it?_

_Witterten schon fette Beute”_

“Do you know, she told me that she has two natural talents,” Sherlock sighed as Molly unabashedly stumbled through the song onstage, her brow furrowing when she encountered some particularly intimidating Deutsch.  “Since I’ve personally verified the other talent, I assumed she wasn’t lying when she said she was ‘phenomenal’ at karaoke.”

A few heads whipped quickly at this idle piece of information.  John murmured, “Well, that was a sharp left turn.”

_“Wegen 99 Luftballons_

_99 Luftballons!”_

“What is it then?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, mildly confused at Stamford’s prodding.  Also, he had been a bit distracted by Molly’s grand bow and supremely smug smile.  Had she not heard herself? 

“What’s her other natural talent?” Lestrade asked curiously.

“Easy lads,” Meena advised, “here she comes.”

Molly’s progress to their table in the corner was slowed by being stopped and praised for her effort at other tables.  When she arrived, Molly was flushed from the spotlight, sparkly in her dress, and triumphant of her performance. 

“I think I strayed into Dutch a bit,” she giggled when she finally plopped into the empty chair next to Sherlock. 

“There were times when it sounded Portuguese,” Sherlock congratulated her, and reached out to clasp her hand.  That was the extent of their public affection for one another, usually.  But Molly, exuberant and apparently unable to help herself, hesitated a moment before surging herself up slightly and kissing his cheek.  Then she turned and beamed to the rest of them.  “Well?”

“Well, what?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“My brother was undoubtedly supposed to announce something during that brilliant performance,” Mycroft explained, finishing his martini before motioning for another.  Everyone else was forced to go to the bar for their orders, and somehow the elder Holmes managed to acquire special treatment from the otherwise indifferent staff.

“I told you he’d figure it out,” Molly laughed to Sherlock, who shrugged. 

“For the rest of us, please?” John requested.

Mycroft sent a questioning gaze to Sherlock, who responded with an bland nod of his own; then the older brother simply said, “I’m sure there’s a connection between their return from their seaside holiday, the ring on Molly’s finger—which she didn’t even hide as she held the microphone, honestly—the fact that Sherlock has kept his left hand in his pocket this entire time, and the black eye.”

Meena shrieked, and jumped up with an accusatory finger pointed at the couple.  “You’re engaged!”

“No!” Sherlock responded with equal, if not mocking, enthusiasm.  He waited until Molly’s best mate had sunk back into her seat before he added, “We’re married.”

This time, Meena and Mike shot out of their seats with joy.  Greg viewed Stamford with a quizzical glance and the doctor responded, “What?  I like weddings.  I was gutted to have missed John’s, but at least I’m here for the reception.”  He looked to Molly and asked, “This is the reception, right?”

“Yes,” she confirmed happily.

“You gave him the black eye,” Meena concluded with a sleuthing glance, “for springing an elopement on you?”

“That’s a fine way to start our marital bliss,” Molly scoffed at the same time Sherlock wondered, “Why does everyone treat a surprise marriage like a bad thing—“

“It was mum,” Mycroft surmised.  “You visited them unexpectedly on your way home from the holiday.  She had sent me a coded text when she saw you, believing something had gone awry, but cancelled it soon after.”

“Queen Mum?” Mary asked, only half joking.

“No,” Sherlock answered facetiously, “and Mycroft is correct.  Our mother was not best pleased when she learned she missed what she termed to be ‘most likely the only wedding to happen to her children.’”

“Ouch,” Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically, with a glance to Mycroft.

“Don’t worry,” Molly called across to her brother-in-law, “My mum used to say the thing about me.  And look how I ended up!”

Mycroft’s silent sneer clearly stated an insulting preference to a life of solitude.

“Though, to be clear, I was not pleased with the high-handed manner with which I became espoused,” Molly clarified.  “I don’t recommend it to anyone.”

“Duly noted,” Lestrade laughed.  “Well, seems like a toast is in order then, before the next poor sod starts mangling another classic.”

“Wait.  Did he just insult my singing?” Molly wanted to know, but nobody answered as several people stood, each apparently thinking they should have the first honour.  Meena had known Molly the longest, Mycroft had known Sherlock the longest, Greg had a few good jokes to slip in, and…

John won out, his argument being he had been cheated out of both being Sherlock’s best man and punching him for the subterfuge.  Watson stood, and cleared his throat.  “Right.  I…I don’t know how to start…”

“Well, I do!” Mike exclaimed, climbing to his feet.  He managed to get out, “May your first child be a masculine child—“ before Mycroft laid a hand on the tipsy doctor’s shoulder and firmly persuaded him back into his seat.

“I was worried that my best mate wouldn’t ever find somebody,” John admitted.  “We all know what kind of arse he is—in fact, he makes it a point to remind us on a daily basis. But I think he partly does it to make us forget how noble he can be.”

“That’s why you’re not the consulting detective,” Sherlock muttered, and jumped slightly when Molly pinched his side.

“Look, we all know what he’s done.  If you asked me if I would sacrifice my good name, my life, or my freedom for the ones I love, I want to say that I would.  But I’ll never know.  None of us will ever have to face making those decisions if Sherlock Holmes has anything to do with it.  And he’ll never hold it over you.  He’ll outright reject any kind of repayment.”

“Except name your firstborn after me, but you can’t even give me that,” Sherlock groused.  Mary halfheartedly swatted at his shoulder.

“So if any person makes the colossal error of saying that Sherlock is anything less than the most decent human being on this planet, I’d pity that person.  Let’s face it, there’s also a chance that I’d punch that person, but that’s just my natural inclination to violence.”

There were a few watery chuckles at that, and a few sneaky peeks at the man of honor showed that he was not entirely comfortable, but also not entirely displeased with the praise. 

“Sherlock didn’t believe in love or promises of lifelong relationships.  He deemed them improbable.  He said as much at my own wedding.  But I think, when he said that, he didn’t realise how improbable of a woman Molly Hooper is.  It doesn’t make sense, for her to be so kind, and patient, and forgiving—and god help you, you’ll need to be forgiving—but she is.  I think we’ve all had that moment where we’ve wanted to grab her by the shoulders and just shake some sense into her.  But that’s because we mistook her kindness for weakness, and we didn’t know just how strong you have to be to let people be so hard on you, and still offer a genuine smile in return.  There’s no formula or scientific pattern to Molly, and Sherlock can’t figure her out, and that’s perfect because there’s nothing funnier than seeing Sherlock Holmes confounded.  So bottoms up to the new Holmes!”  There was a clinking of glasses and laughter, and more than one of the celebrants had to wipe at their eyes.

“Hooper and Holmes,” Sherlock corrected after a swig of his own beer.

“He likes my name,” Molly told the women with a sentimental smile.  “He said, ‘I fell in love with Molly Hooper, I want to live my life with Molly Hooper.’”  Sherlock muttered that he still did not sound like the exaggeratedly low voice she used when imitating him, and they ignored him.  “I dunno. There’s a chance I’ll change it.”

“It helps distance you from any international incidents in your shady past,” Mary offered sagely.  John felt that the right moment to pull her drink away from her. 

 “What do you mean by that, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked curiously, and the new couple let Mary disentangle herself from that one. 

“Is it a pleasing celebration, wife?” Sherlock asked her, his words low and warm in her ear as the music started up once more.

“It’s perfect, husband,” she assured him.  Molly knew that Sherlock was slightly worried.  He had expected swooning bliss when he surprised her with a clergyman and certificate during their short stay in Mousehole and only received shocked silence in return.  The fact that she actually wanted to marry him saved them from total disaster.  Despite her sincere declarations that she was quite satisfied with her swift ceremony, her pearl-and-garnet ring (for Sherlock eschewed the orchestrated hubbub about diamonds), and new husband, Sherlock felt an unavoidable urgency to make up for his miscalculated haste.  Hence, the unexpected gathering in a Shoreditch karaoke bar.

“Do you think everything John said of us is true?” she teased.

Sherlock smiled, and abandoned his pint to wrap an arm around her, drawing her close.  “A little.  I am a monstrously good person, aren’t I?”

She rolled her eyes and Sherlock was quick to add, “And I am improved by the addition of you, you and all your…confounding.”

Molly smiled, and leaned into his side as the others added their toasts.  Mrs. Hudson toasted her herbal soothers, Mike toasted that bloody microscope—which was St. Bart’s stolen property any way—and so on and so forth.  Their group continued to trade adulation and insults in between songs and drinks.  Mycroft left first, and was nice (inebriated?) enough to give Meena and Mrs. Hudson a ride home.  John and Mary left soon after to return to their young child.  Mike and Greg ended up slurring a Sinatra duet at the mic.

“I’m very glad I turned out to be your one true love, Molly,” he murmured against her temple.

“And I turned out to be yours, Sherlock,” she laughed tiredly.  “But I thought we agreed that it takes a few years to find out whether it’s ‘true love’ or not?”

“I am a bit early,” he agreed easily.  “But it will be just as true fifty years from now as it is today,” he pointed out absently as he finished his drink.

Molly shook her head slightly, deeply touched and amused.  If it had been any other bloke, she would have dismissed it as confectionary rubbish.  But it was Sherlock who was speaking with such effortless confidence.

If he said they would truly love one another in fifty years, Molly had no reason to doubt it. 

 

* * *

 

The End


End file.
